Last Alliance
by wickedmetalviking1990
Summary: In the waning days of the Second Age, Sauron was defeated by the Last Alliance. See now the war as never seen before, through the eyes of those that lived through it. Book-verse
1. The Siege of Minas Ithil

**(AN: I've dabbled in _Lord of the Rings_ stories on here, but this one will be my first, semi-original idea. All of the characters [save for a few of them] are created by J.R.R. Tolkien. This is about the Second Age and the Last Alliance [hence the title], but told from a rather unique point of view.)**

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><p><strong>The Siege of Minas Ithil<strong>

_3429 S.A._

Ohtar was roused from his sleep by the sound of bells ringing in the courtyard of the barracks. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he heard their clarion call ringing in his ears: their sounding meant only one thing.

The city was under attack.

He slept in his armor – at least his shirt of mail, for such the men of Minas Ithil always dressed, even in sleep – and so had little to array himself with save for his sword. He wrapped the leather belt about his waist while he began slapping the heavy plates of armor over his mail shirt. Taking up his horn, placing in the belt that held the scabbard of his sword, he walked hurriedly over to a table that sat against the wall of his room. Thereon was a great something swathed in a black cloth.

This Ohtar took up reverently, both hands upon the beam that protruded from out of the cloth, and ran up the stairs out of his room into the courtyard.

All was in flames. The bright city of the Tower of the Moon was bathed not in moonlight, but in the glare of many fires. Hideous cries of fell creatures in the Black Tongue could be heard outside the walls of the city. Men and women ran here and there in confusion and disarray.

He turned and saw his captain was waiting for him. A giant of a man he was, the likeness of all of the great ones of the Edain incarnate - from Beren unto Elros, the father of the Edain. His men were with him, all of them armed and ready for battle. They, like Ohtar, looked up to him even as if he were king already.

"Ohtar!" Isildur called out to his herald and standard-bearer. "Come! I have a task for you."

"I'm at your service, my lord!" Ohtar said, kneeling before the giant lord of the city.

"There is a treasure here in this city," Isildur began. "A precious memento of our ancient home. I cannot let it fall into the hands of the Enemy." He knelt down and placed a hand upon Ohtar's shoulder.

"You must lead the people out of the city," he said.

"But, my lord," Ohtar continued. "We cannot risk losing you! I-I am no captain, no leader of Men!"

"You are my faithful servant," Isildur continued. "I trust none other with this great a task. Lead the people out of the valley, to the Capital on the River. The Valar willing, I will be there shortly. If not..." He sighed, but said nothing else. Neither of them wanted to envision Isildur's death.

"Quickly!" Isildur insisted, practically dragging Ohtar to his feet. "Unfurl the standard! Lead the people to safety! May the Valar be with you!" He turned then to his men and gave specific instructions to them, that they should follow the standard and guard the people as they made their escape.

Without another word, Ohtar went to fulfill his duty. The first place he stopped was the stables, where he mounted his steed and rode out into the courtyard. Pausing for a moment, he unfurled the banner he had been carrying, then held it aloft on its beam that all might see it and take hope.

A red banner, with emblems of _ithildin_ and silver thread upon the cloth. The seven stars crowned a great White Tree, and to the side was the crescent moon. This was the banner of the lord of Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon, Isildur, first-born of Elendil the Tall, king of Arnor.

Hope filled the heart of Ohtar, and all the Edain who saw the banner unfurl amid the fires of war.

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><p>They were on their way out of the valley. Though Ohtar had lived in the Imlad Ithil for many years, he had never really gotten used to the strange feel of this valley. So close to the borders of the Black Land, nights of sleepless anxiety were not foreign to him. There was, in fact, a time when he wished he could be transferred somewhere less formidable: like the capital city of Osgiliath, or the fortress of Minas Anor, or his family's old home in Isengard.<p>

Now, as the white walls of Minas Ithil grew smaller and smaller, black clouds of smoke and ash marking what had once been his home, Ohtar felt detached, suddenly, from what had become a home to him.

Even worse, he feared for his lord. No sign of his return had been noted since they left the city walls. Soon the dark mountains would pass them by, Minas Ithil would be hidden from view, and any hope that Isildur would make it would vanish with the city.

Just then, when hope seemed frail and fading, burning like the houses and buildings of the great Tower of the Moon, a lone rider rode out from across the bridge. It was now coming nearer and nearer. Ohtar's hand gripped the hilt of his sword, fearing some attack. The Lord of Barad-dur had more than orcs at his disposal: wicked men from the East, blind and ignorant half-men that worshipped him as if he were a god instead of the Valar. There were even whispers of Dunedain who had fallen into wantonness and darkness, and had established their own cult, known as the Moredain. The Black Numenoreans.

Ohtar's heart rose as the rider now came within sight. Tall he was, more so than most men, even of the Edain. He was now close enough that he, Ohtar, could make out discerning features. A long thing he had, wrapped in a bundle, carried under one arm, and another thing, also swathed in black cloth, was cradled before him, held by the hand that held the reins of his horse.

"My lord!" he shouted, waving as Isildur joined the rear-guard of the column. He sighed in relief. For now, though Minas Ithil be lost, at least its lord was safe.

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><p><strong>(AN: Good enough teaser? I plan on making more, but don't know when. Just keep watching for more updates.)<strong>


	2. Osgiliath

**(AN: Here follows the next chapter of this series. There are bound to be several chapters of great length here, since this story covers a good deal of time - roughly in the area of fifteen years.)**

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><p><strong>Osgiliath<strong>

_3429 S.A._

Two or three stout-hearted men could walk the distance from Imlad Ithil to the beautiful country of Ithilien, or even to the walls of the capital city Osgiliath, in two or three days if they traveled only by night and had a mission of secrecy. For those who were in haste, fleeing from great woe and disaster, the march was a matter of only a day or so.

So it was that Ohtar found himself in the fair valleys of Ithilien with the lord Isildur's refugees from the city of Minas Ithil. This lovely, beautiful country that seemed to blossom and grow in almost eternal spring belied the danger that was so close to this land. For to the east lay the black jagged teeth of the Ephel Duath, the western wall of mountains that formed the boundary of the Black Land.

Even to say the name of 'Mordor' brought fear into the hearts of those who had never even seen it. Those who lived thereby, such as Ohtar, in the vale that sat at the edge of the mountains, knew all too well that the rumor of terror and dread that came with the name of 'Mordor' was nothing compared to the truth.

"Take heart, my friend," Isildur said, bringing his horse up alongside his esquire.

"My liege!" Ohtar nodded.

"We will be in safe lands once again," he continued. "Or at least, as safe as any lands can be in these days of darkness."

"If I may venture, milord," Ohtar continued. "Exactly where _are_ we going?"

"The capital of Gondor," he replied. "I must warn my brother the King of the danger that threatens his very door-step."

This was what Ohtar loved doing, what he was born to do. A warrior he was, and a warrior of Gondor at that. His duty was to his lord and the battlefield was to him a familiar place. Yet, like any warrior, he loved the peace after the battle - just not the sense of uselessness that came when all the brave deeds were done.

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><p>There were many great cities of the Dunedain in the old days, in all of them the splendor of Numenor was captured in some way or another. Annuminas, the capital of Arnor, with its great walls and high towers, the citadel of Fornost, the high-tower of Isengard, the twin cities of Gondor - Minas Anor of the Rising Sun and Minas Ithil of the Waxing Moon. Even Umbar, once a sea-haven of the men of Westernesse now fallen into darkness, served as a constant reminder of the folly of men and what their wickedness had brought upon them: eternal exile and the loss of beloved Numenor.<p>

But in no such cities was the glory and splendor of Numenor captured more than the Queen of Cities herself, the capital of Gondor: so great she was that she straddled the great River Anduin on both sides. A jewel of the kingdom of Gondor, a place of light and beauty and music, the manifestation of the glory of the Kings of Men.

The great gates of Osgiliath rose like the arms of the Earth herself to greet them, shining as if wrought with silver rather than stones. Tall buildings, like trees, rose high above their heads, the tops of their crowns glimmering in the mid-day sun. The stone streets were paved with cunning stone-work, wrought with images in the likeness of the Tree and the Stars and of ships fleeing out of the West on the heels of a storm, and no crack or weed could be seen in these streets. The streets were wide, and filled with shops and small vendors where men traded their wares, for this was the Market Square of the Eastern half of the city. Fair scents of herbs wafted from the apothecaries and those learned in leech-craft: the fragant warmth of _athelas_ and the pungent hum of the _galenas_ puffing up in small ringlets from clay and ivory pipes.

At the center square, where the streets were filled with a great traffic of men on foot, both buyers and sellers and men of the city, their company came to a halt. For here, at the center of the Market Square, was the highway that led across the River Anduin to the Western Shore by way of a great bridge. There were many bridges that spanned connected the two sides of this great city, but only one was the greatest bridge. So wide was this bridge that a tower it had upon an island in the center of the bridge, wide and with a great, rounded dome. The road ran in two lanes on either side of this tower, each wide enough for a company of armed soldiers to cross it with ten men standing abreast on each lane.

Hither to this tower they made their march, for they were being expected. A company of men-at-arms and knights on horses rode out to meet them from the tower. At their head was a great lord upon a horse, tall and proud, with long dark hair. A great cloak he had pinned upon his breast by a single jewel of silver, fashioned like a star: the material of the cloth was deep blue, almost sable, with stars of silver-thread sewn into the firmament of the cloak. This was Anarion, King of Gondor, lord of the city of Osgiliath, son of Elendil.

"Brother!" he cried out, leaping from his horse. Isildur dismounted from off his horse, meeting his brother half-way and then they embraced.

From where Ohtar stood, he saw the brothers discuss something that he could not comprehend. He had not the ears of the Eldar, nor the abililty to read lips, and so was left to wonder what great things they were discussing between themselves. Finally, Anarion, grim-faced, made his way back to the tower, calling his guards after him. Isildur then walked over to his horse, removed one of the bundles that sat upon it, then turned to those who followed with him.

"Elendur! Aratan!"

Two young men, none of them even of the age of thirty-three, the coming of age of the Men of the West, rode up at the summons of their father.

"Take our people across the River," he ordered. "Find food for those who are hungry. But don't settle down just yet. We may yet leave this place."

"Yes, father!" Elendur, the eldest, nodded.

"Ohtar," he turned to his esquire. "Dismount, you're coming with me."

"Milord!" he thrust the end of the banner into the earth of a nearby garden and let the breeze carry the banner of the Prince of Minas Ithil. This done, he dismounted from off his horse and followed Isildur into the great tower with Anarion and the others.

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><p>Only the great men of the city saw inside the tower of Osgiliath, the huge Dome of the Stars. The walls were smooth, yet not white as with most of the city. They were a dark gray, but the ceiling was blue like the night sky, and set with thousands of tiny gems and symbols of silver, arranged like the constellations of the heavens. But the chief of these emblems was wrought of <em>mithril<em>, and set in the shape of a great mariner. This was Earendil the Mariner, renown both among the Edain and the Eldar.

In the midst of this great room there was a great stone, whose depth could not be told. For it seemed to glow and many lights shone and danced in its great, murky ether. Ohtar gasped.

"My lord," he turned to Isildur. "Is that what I think it is?"

"A _palantir_," Isildur returned.

"If-If the legends are true," he continued. "These were given to the Kings of Numenor by the Eldar!"

"That is true."

"But I thought they were all lost! Drowned in the sea with our ancient homeland."

"Not all of them," Anarion stated. "But keep silent, now. My brother and I must hold council."

Ohtar stood at attention at the door, waiting for his master to return. Though he kept silent, his ears were open to hear what there was to be heard. Something was going on between his lord and his lord's brother, something that they were speaking about quite intently. This is as much as he remembered.

"What brings you to the capital, brother?" Anarion asked. "You've not reported in for many days, and Minas Ithil has gone dim."

"Minas Ithil has fallen," Isildur said with sorrow. "Orcs and other fell creatures marched over the mountains of Mordor by secret ways and laid siege to our city. We had not the numbers to push them back. The terror that abides in those hills fought both of us, slaying friend and foe alike and dragging them off to her accursed lair. Every loss was a grievous hurt to us, yet they were as nothing to our enemies, who had enough to feed that demon and to spare!"

Ohtar's blood ran cold and he forced back a cry of anger. Everyone in Minas Ithil knew the rumors of the terror that abode in the hills. It climbed upon the walls of the mountain, spinning down upon webs of darkness, always attacking at night, when the moon was hidden and the stars veiled by the shadow of the Black Land. Children were stolen out of cribs, wives and husbands out of their beds, horses and foals out of their stables. Young and old, weak and strong, men, women and children, bird and beast, it showed favor to none. Not even to Nalion of Ithilien and young Ecthelion, his wife and child of a few weeks. Captured they were by that beast, and carried away into the darkness of Torech Ungol. Nothing ever came out of that gap in the world, that hole into the abyss.

"We were overrun," Isildur continued. "But we escaped, in the nick of time, it seems."

"Does the Enemy have the stone?" Anarion whispered. "Isildur, you know the nature of the _palantiri_. Even an orc or a brigand of the hills could look into them and see at the hearts of our strongholds - here and in Arnor. But if the Lord of Mordor should..."

"Be at peace, brother!" Ohtar cast a glance over and saw him open one of the bundles. In it was a small stone, like the great one that sat in the middle of the room.

"Glad I am to see this!" Anarion hugged his brother and kissed him upon the cheek, so great was his joy. "Oh, if this had ever fallen into the hands of the Enemy, the Stones would never be safe again."

"Let us pray that day never comes." Isildur added. "For now, I must go north to Arnor. Father must know of our plight."

"Go?" Anarion queried. "But what of Gondor?"

"Brother," Isildur said. "I might be older than you, but it is _you_ who are the King. You wear the crown, and it is your duty to defend your people, not mine. You cannot hide behind your older brother forever, you know."

Anarion scoffed. "So you expect me to hold the armies of Mordor here until you and father come to my rescue?"

"I wouldn't suffer it to be another way," Isildur returned. "No enemy shall ever take Osgiliath while the Men of Gondor defend it. Even Minas Anor, the city of seven levels, would hold out for many weeks against a tide of foes. But don't think that I am abandoning you, brother, to the tides of darkness. First, I must send messengers to Erech. The men of Waw swore to come to our aid in time of need: I must needs collect upon that oath in this, our time of need."

"Are you sure you can trust the men of Waw?" Anarion asked. "They're men of darkness! They lived here when the lord of Mordor reigned supreme: there are even rumors of gatherings of their cult of Morgoth in that land. If it is true that they once feared and worshipped our Enemy, they won't answer to his foes."

"They _will_ answer to the lords of Gondor!" Isildur affirmed. He turned his face around and looked at his servant.

"Are you rested, Ohtar?" he asked.

"Just barely, milord." he answered. "It was a long flight from Imlad Ithil to the capital."

"I understand," Isildur nodded. "Go find yourself something to eat and drink. Then take your rest. You'll be riding west to Erech in the morning, on an urgent mission of diplomacy."

"Yes, milord."

"You are dismissed."

With those three, cherished words, Ohtar smiled, bowed before his lord, said 'Thank you, sir' and left the tower of Osgiliath.

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><p><strong>(AN: Originally going to be one long chapter, but decided to cut it in half so that I can get something out. I've been idle for far too long!)<strong>

**(Prose may be a bit on the purple shade, but it's needful, especially to describe Osgiliath in all of her glory.)**

**(Any thoughts? Questions? Ideas? Send in the reviews.)**


	3. Men of the Mountain

**(AN: Originally one large chapter, split for clarity's sake. Also, for those who are wondering, it is quite explicitly stated in Tolkien's work that no tale remembers the name of the Men of the Mountain. I call them the 'Kingdom of Waw', in correspondence to the unofficial name of one of the Nazgul - Dwar of Waw. After all, that would make him a King of a group of Men who worshipped Sauron and therefore were privy to the Nine Rings of Power. The Men of the Mountain _did_ worship Sauron, and since they _could_ be Men of Darkness, who have shorter life-spans than Numenoreans, Dwar could have been an older king and the King of the Dead his descendant. Just a hypothesis, but I'm going with it in this story. It is _not_ canon, and should not be taken as such.)**

**(Nonetheless, enjoy.)**

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><p><strong>Men of the Mountain<strong>

_3429 S.A._

It did not take Ohtar long to find where Elendur had taken the people. The square directly west of the Osgiliath Tower, on the opposite side of the River, had some of the city's barracks, where the soldiers had been taken. Isildur's family - namely his wife Elian and their servants - were housed in guest rooms in Anarion's palace. The three young men who were his sons abode with the men in the barracks.

Here it was that Ohtar found his way to where the men of Minas Ithil were resting and recovering after the siege. First things first, he needed to prepare for his duties on the following day. After asking around a bit, he found his way to the stables, just a short ways from the garrison's main barracks. He called for the stable master, an Eotheod (one of the Men of Rhovanion whose people were skilled in the art of horsemanship), and asked if there were any fresh steeds that were yet unused.

"The lord Isildur," he stated. "Has charged me with an urgent task, and I must be away by first light tomorrow morning."

The stable master, an old man with hair the color of silver, took a lamp and led Ohtar through the long rows of stalls where the horses were being kept. Towards the rear, he presented the herald with a chestnut mare. Ohtar thanked the stable master and gave him coin for his service.

That done, he made his way back to the barracks to find himself a place to sleep. It had been a long day - even longer than he knew it, for the day upon which he had awoken was an unnatural night created by the Dark Lord to speed the passage of his orcs as they besieged the city, and in fact it had been almost _two_ days - and he needed to rest. In the morning, he would be riding half the length of the realm of Gondor to reach the Kingdom of Waw, situated near the Vale of Erech in the province of Lamedon.

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><p>It was the time for the evening meal. Ohtar found his way to the mess hall and found some food for himself of that which was available from the stores for the new-comers. It was generous, for though Osgiliath was now being prepared for war, at Anarion's orders, food was still in plenty: roasted beef and honey from Rhovanion, fruits from Greenwood, bread from the Pelennor farmlands, vegetables and potatoes from Ithilien and cheese from Anfalas. A few kegs of imported ale from Hadhodrond were also available, and it was the finest beer in all the lands.<p>

Ohtar belonged to Isildur's company, and so looked for where they sat down to sup, where he would join them. Once they were all together, they doffed their helms or hoods and looked to the West. For that was the custom among the Dunedain in exile when they ate. They would look out in silence into the West, to Numenor that was, Valinor that is and Beyond that shall be.

"My lord!" a child's voice shouted. Ohtar rose to attention, but saw that Isildur was not present. Instead, the youth was speaking to him instead.

"No, no, lad," Ohtar laughed, reminded fiercely of himself. "I'm not the lord here."

"Not yet, at least." the young boy said. "Anyone can see that the lord favors you above all others."

"I fear his favor is unwarranted," Ohtar returned. "I am but a man like any other. I warrant that even _you_ will one day grow into a fine warrior yourself, uh...what's your name?"

"Estelmo, sir."

"Estel," Ohtar smiled. "That means 'hope.'" He slid down on his bench and patted the hard wood. "Come here, lad. Have a seat. It will be good to have hope with us in our dark hour."

"Thank you, sir," Estelmo said. "But I have to report back to my lord Elendur. I am his page."

"Indeed? The son of my lord has yourself as his page? You seek to become a squire like myself one day?"

"Perhaps," Estelmo nodded. But Ohtar noticed that his face was downcast.

"Don't be afraid, Estelmo." Ohtar encouraged. "The city may be lost, but we have endured famously. As long as Isildur is alive, there will always be hope for Men."

"I would like to believe that, sir."

"And believe this, young 'hope'," Ohtar continued. "That when my lord goes to join his ancestors, then _your_ lord shall be king."

"King? But how? Is not Anarion King of Gondor and Elendil King of Arnor?"

"Verily," Ohtar began. "But my father told me that, when these kingdoms were first established, Elendil the Tall ordained that his firstborn son, Isildur, should rule after him as King of Arnor, while his second son, Anarion, should rule the Kingdom of Gondor. Therefore, in time, it shall be your lord Elendur who will hold the Scepter of Annuminas and wear the Star of Silmarien. You may yet be a captain of great warriors and send foes running in fright from your banner."

The lad looked quite enthralled with this statement, this hopeful prophecy of his future.

"I like you, sir." the lad said. "What is your name?"

"I thought you knew," Ohtar chuckled. "But I am called Ohtar, esquire of Isildur."

Estelmo looked back at his table, where Elendur and his company sat eating.

"I must attend to my lord," he said to Ohtar.

"And I to mine," Ohtar returned. "I must be away on an important errand, and therefore I will not be here in the city for some time."

"Good fortune to you," the lad bowed. "May the Valar protect you."

"And you as well, Estelmo." The young lad ran back to the table of his company and Ohtar returned to his board. The lad's face, his optimistic tone, reminded Ohtar of his youth living in Isengard, which is called Angrenost in Sindarin, with his family. For though he was young by the standards of the Dunedain - only nine and forty summers - that was many years among lesser Men. Yet not so many that he, like Elendil and his sons, remembered their ancient home, the one that lay across the sea in the West, the one that was no more...

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><p>When Ohtar rose early that morning, ere the rising of Anor, he found his lord at the stables with two other men-at-arms with their horses.<p>

"Ohtar," Isildur laughed. "Always late."

"I apologize, my lord." Ohtar bowed.

"Nay, there is no fault. I have not slept this night, having been..." He looked out at the darkling city, toward the Tower of Osgiliath. "...in _deep_ council. But the time for councils is not yet upon us. Now we must ride west to Erech and seek the men of the mountain."

He turned to another servant and waved him forward. Ohtar saw that the servant bore the banner, still furled in a black cloth, upon its pole.

"Bear this before the Men of Waw," Isildur said, presenting the banner to Ohtar. "They will know who it is that summons them to war."

"I will, my lord." Ohtar nodded.

"These men that go with you," Isildur added. "They bear my call-to-arms." He turned to them all.

"Go, now!" he cried out. "May the Valar keep you safe and speed you our way to your destination and on your way home! Go now!"

With a cry, Ohtar took off on his horse, with the other two soldiers in tow. Through the deserted city streets they rode, to fulfill oaths long ago pledged, to summon the Men of Waw to war, at the command of their lord, ere the rising of the sun.

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><p>Three days they rode across the land of Gondor. Once they exited the City of Osgiliath, they turned south-westward ere they entered the fields of the Pelennor. Five rivers they crossed on their way to the west before they found the one that led into the valley they sought.<p>

The vale was wide and filled with many outlying villages of many Men. These were the vassals of the southern fiefdoms, smaller provinces which owed their fealty to Anarion, King of Gondor. Farther north up the river the land became rocky and deserted. At last, Ohtar and his company came to a hilt upon which sat a great black stone shaped like a globe, smooth and without crack or edge. This was the stone of Erech, placed by Isildur when the Exiles first came to Arda.

He let out a sigh as he saw the Stone. His mother and father had lived in Numenor in their youth, and it was with heavy hearts that they heeded the call of the Faithful and fled its downfall with Elendil and his sons and others of the "Elf-friends." Now they lived here in this land, even as Elendil himself had spoken when, born upon the winds of the storm, he made landfall in this land just a few miles south, on the shores of the sea...

_Et Earello Endorenna utulien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta..._

The words of their exile. It was Ar-Pharazon, he was told, who brought about their downfall by seeking to take Valinor by force, which was not the Doom of Men. Numenor paid the ultimate price for the folly of many, for it was not just the Golden King who worshiped the Dark Lord and paid heed to his lies that Valinor could be conquered, and these few, the Exiles, now paid the ultimate price. Never would Ohtar see his people in the greatness that they had known in the days of Numenor's greatness.

He turned back into the waking world and rode on from the Stone of Erech up the rising hill to the southern Gate of the Kingdom of Waw. A sudden fear and dread came over their horses and they neighed and panted in nervousness. Ohtar looked about and saw that the buildings that the Men of Waw kept were empty, but everywhere, he saw the emblem of the Lidless Eye of Mordor. It was upon the gates, upon the walls, upon the houses, upon their door-posts and upon the banners. Not scratched in rude orc-scratches, but crafted with cunning and with skill.

The hands of Men made set this hideous emblem into their buildings.

"Men of Waw," Ohtar spoke with a loud voice. "Bring us to your king! Let him hear the words of Isildur, prince of Arnor, to whom he owes allegiance, sworn by the Stone of Erech."

No sign of activity appeared from the stone structures - huts and lean-to's compared to the masonry of Osgiliath and Minas Anor. No word or shaft came in answer to this challenge. Twice more Ohtar presented his challenge to the Men of the Mountain, yet no answer came from within.

At last, after the space of an hour had gone, a host of armed men appeared from out of the halls of the cave. At their head was a tall one with a great crown and a scepter. A great red cloak flew behind him as he walked out to meet the emissaries of Gondor.

"Who enters my domain?" the King shouted haughtily.

"I am Ohtar," the answer came. "Esquire of Isildur, prince of Arnor and lord of Minas Ithil. You owe him your allegiance."

"I bow to no man," the King proudly returned. "I bow to nothing, save the god of Mordor!"

Cheers rose from his guards. Those two who were with Ohtar began look about nervously.

"A god of fear and terror," Ohtar said. "But Isildur is a kind liege-lord, one who has never levied tax against you, fair or unjust. He has never taken your lands or questioned your kingship. But the drums of war thunder in the East, and my lord calls you to aid." He turned to the man to his right and nodded to him. He unfurled the scroll and read therefrom.

"'I, Isildur, son of Elendil, crown prince of the Kingdom of Arnor, lord and captain of the tower of Minas Ithil and governor of Ithilen, do call upon you, Morthec Gruan, King of Waw and Lord of Mornan, to remember the oaths sworn upon the Stone of Erech which stands before your kingdom. The Stone stands to witness that your lordship, in good faith, swore allegiance to myself, that you would fight under my banner when I called your men to arms. Honor now demands that you fulfill the oaths of honor sworn unto me upon the Stone of Erech. I await in Osgiliath, eager to hear your reply.'"

Ohtar removed the cloth from about the banner and brought it out, letting the winds carry the Tree and the Seven Stars high above their heads, that all may see the standard of him to whom the oaths they swore.

"See now the banner of Isildur," Ohtar said to the king. "Your lord calls you to fight for Gondor in her time of need."

Silence.

"What say you?" Ohtar queried. "Honor demands that you _must_ ride to the aid of Gondor and her prince. What say you?"

A low, menacing laugh escaped the lips of the King. This was taken up by his soldiers, but ceased when he held forth his scepter to speak.

"Am I a dog," the King queried. "To come and go at his master's beck and call? We will not be slaves to your tyrants and upstarts! The Dark Lord promises freedom and free-will for the Men of Waw, while your prince holds out his hand to us. All I see is a shackle of slavery." He spat in Ohtar's direction.

"_That_ is what I think of your prince and his request!"

"Honor demands that you answer his call!" Ohtar insisted, sounding quite offended.

"Honor is for the weak!" He then walked back and turned to his bodyguards.

"The Dark Lord wills it! Kill them now!"

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Cliffhanger!)<strong>

**(Give us feedback please. Questions and such.)**

**(For those who like to envision the stories they read in real-life, like I do, let me say that, aesthetically, this is based off of the _Lord of the Rings_ film trilogy. The look of the Dunedain of Gondor and Arnor is that from the prologue, but there will be minor tweaks here and there in accordance to book-lore verses movie-lore. The reason I set the aesthetics of this story to that of the films is because as far as the appearance of the movies, that is spot on in every sense of the word. It's the transition from story-to-film where the errors happen. So be on the look-out for book-inspired moments.)  
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	4. The March North

**(AN: Wow, what do ya know? I'm on a role!)**

**(Well, check out this new chapter.)**

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><p><strong>The March North<strong>

_3429 S.A._

Ohtar's eyes opened again and he found himself in a fair place with walls of white stone. The smell of _athelas_ wafted into the room, and he imagined himself in Ithilien.

As he looked around, he saw that it was not so. He was in a different place, somewhere higher above the ground than he had believed. Looking around, he saw a maid going about on some business.

"Lady," he said. "Where am I?"

"The Houses of Healing, in Minas Anor, my lord." she answered, then went on about her business.

Ohtar tried to think back to what had happened. Brief memories of insane, blood-thirsty men, behaving as fiendish as orcs, hacking apart his escort. The scroll was torn apart, smashed under foot and defiled. The horses were dead, and the corpses of the men and horses were taken off into the mountains to be used by the Men of Waw in some dark ritual, to be sacrificed to their Dark Lord and then eaten by their people. A grim and grizzly fate for those poor lads and those goodly horses.

But one horse had survived. It must have gone away, ran in fear at the coming of the Men of Waw. Ohtar had cursed it for cowardice, but it seemed now that the cowardice of the horse of the Eotheod had paid off. His sword drawn and bloodied, Ohtar had stumbled away and all knowledge faded once he reached the Stone of Erech.

"What happened?" he mused aloud.

Word was given out that the Dunedain they found was now well enough to speak. To Ohtar's profound honor, he found the King himself walking into the Houses of Healing and speaking with him personally. He asked to hear what happened, for he knew something of Isildur's mission to Waw. When he had told all that had happened, Anarion grew grave and sincere.

"These are dark tidings," he said. "If only the Men of the Mountain had been more lenient. We must inform Isildur at once."

"I am ready," Ohtar said. "Is he still in the city?"

"No," Anarion shook his head. "He is on his way down the River by ship, going north to the havens at Lindon."

"Damn!" Ohtar swore aloud.

But Anarion smiled. "We can stop him before he reaches Pelargir."

"How?" Ohtar asked. "The swiftest horse will not be able to reach Pelargir before Isildur leaves the Anduin."

"We won't go by horse," Anarion said wisely. "Not yet, at least. Come with me."

* * *

><p>Anarion led Ohtar out of the Houses of Healing and down the huge lane that went straight through the keel of stone that split the city in twain. Up that lane they went until they came to citadel, with its fountain and the green lawn about it. Ohtar felt that the lawn before the fountain was too empty, and needed something to stand there, to occupy that space, but could not think what could ever go that way. The courtyard was mostly empty, save for several darkened lanes that led away into the Houses of the Dead. But their place was a tall tower, glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver. Three hundred feet it stood, standing at a monumental one thousand feet above the Pelennor Fields.<p>

At the base of the tall tower, there was a door wrought of wood and iron. This heavy door Anarion pushed open with his own hands and led Ohtar up the fleet of stairs, leading many hundred feet in a great spiral. Like climbing the Ered Nimrais it was in its height and towards the top stairs, Ohtar was panting for breath.

"Here we are," Anarion said, as they reached the top step. He, of course, seemed to not have been affected by the climb. At this top story there was a pedestal made of black iron, like that in Angrenost. Upon that pedestal was a _palantir_, like the one in Osgiliath, only much smaller. The windows of the tower, also, were open: all the lands of south-eastern Gondor were laid out before them, from the Ephel Duath in the east, the rolling oceans of grass in Calenardhon to the north, to the Sea in the south and west and all the lands of Gondor in between.

"Your mission is urgent, Ohtar," Anarion said. "I will therefore allow you access to the Stone of Minas Anor. But don't expect to always be allowed to use them. They are the heirlooms of Numenor, forged by Feanor in Valinor and given to Elros by the Valar as a sign of their love to the Men of Numenor. Surely you know the rhymes?"

Yes, Ohtar knew the rhymes, and it was with trembling hands that he reached out to touch the cold stone of the _palantir_, remembering the rhymes of the coming of Men from out of the Sea.

_Tall ships and tall kings _  
><em>Three times three <em>  
><em>What brought they from the foundered land <em>  
><em>Over the flowing sea?<em>  
><em>Seven stars and seven stones <em>  
><em>And one white tree.<em>

Once his hands touched the glass orb, the world around him seemed to grow dark. He could see things afar off. The beautiful forests surrounding Orthanc, the pinnacle of stone in Angrenost, the stars that floated above Osgiliath, the white halls of Annuminas, Elostirion upon the Tower Hills, and then suddenly he saw the face of his lord.

_Why are you here?_ he thought. _Why has Anarion given you permission to use the Stone of Anor?_

"My lord!" he spoke. But the images in the _palantir_ heard not his voice.

_I see what peril you've escaped from_, the thought of Isildur said. _And it angers me greatly. Go to Pelargir. I will meet you there._

Ohtar felt himself freed at last from the gaze and was now blinking back into the waking word, his hands pulling away from the Stone.

* * *

><p>Anarion lent him the aid of his swiftest horse and then Ohtar was on his way to Pelargir, pondering what had happened with his conversation between Isildur via the <em>palantir<em>. Much was said, apparently, though he had said very little. Perhaps Isildur guessed there was more than Ohtar had said. Or, perhaps, since he heard only the thought of his lord, that it was through thought and shades that the Stones of Seeing could see.

When he reached Pelargir, two days after his departure from Minas Anor, he found Isildur's fleet of black-sailed ships waiting for him. As he came to the wharf to meet with his lord and return the banner, he saw that Isildur was already there, mounted and waiting for him.

"Come, Ohtar," he said to his esquire. "We ride to the valley of Erech!"

So they went, yet Ohtar could sense a great fuming rage boiling up within his lord. One that was started by treason and would soon over-boil and explode. Woe to any who was caught in its wake when the levies of restraint broke.

At last they came to the gate of the kingdom, north of the vale of Erech. Here they found the gates closed against them. In his rage, Isildur spoke to his horse in Sindarin and the beast reared up on its hind legs and kicked at the gates. But the gates of the men of Waw were not like the those of Gondor or Arnor: little strength there was in their gate-craft, and this one tumbled under so great an assault.

"Are you coming?" Isildur laughed, turning to his esquire.

"Right behind you, milord!" Ohtar replied.

The gate led into a dark lane that passed beneath the mountain. The Men of Waw, in imitation either of Durin's folk or the maggot-folk of Mordor, created a city and a refuge for their people under the Ered Nimrais. Yet it paled in comparison to the mansions of Hadhodrond or the great halls beneath the Ered Luin. Though Ohtar had never been in a dwarf-hall before, he knew which one he would prefer: the halls of the mountain here were like caves, trapped and cut off from the light, stuffy and uncomfortable.

As Isildur and Ohtar rode through the underground streets, they saw that all was deserted. No windows showed any light, no faces stared out at the Dunedain in their strange livery riding through the streets of their home. A fear hung about the whole place, as if the people who had before slaughtered his men in cold blood now hid in fear at the very mention of the lord's name.

They checked their horses at the courtyard of a palace that stood built into the side of the cavernous hall. Ohtar held the banner and Isildur drew out his sword and pointed it at the gates of the palace.

"Come forth, traitorous dog!" he roared in his fury.

No answer came at first to Isildur's challenge.

"Come out, if you have any honor!" Isildur returned.

At last a cadre of guards appeared. Ohtar saw that these were the same soldiers that had cut apart his escort and killed their horses. Yet they did not look so haughty now. They quivered in their armor, spears clutched in trembling hands, as they led their King out to meet with Isildur. Like a dog he came, shaking and hunched over almost to a crawl.

"What is the meaning of this?" Isildur said to the king. "I asked you to fulfill your oaths of honor, and you killed my messengers!"

"Please, great lord!" the king begged. "We mean no harm. We don't want to serve any master, East or West. We wish only to remain here in our homes, free to do as we will."

"So you say," Isildur returned. "Yet you carve the symbol of the Lidless Eye of Mordor into your buildings. You mean no harm, you say, yet you slew two of my men. Why?"

"It is the will of our lord!" the king whined.

"The lord of Mordor, you mean!"

"Please, have mercy!"

"Mercy? To oathbreakers? Murderers? Traitors to their allies!"

Without a word he stepped off his horse and walked towards the king, sword drawn. The guards rose to keep him away, but one look into Isildur's fiery gray eyes sent them running in fear. In their haste they threw their weapons to the ground and cowered like dogs, on their hands and knees and biting their nails. As Isildur approached the king, he collapsed in fear before the might of this great lord of the Dunedain.

"Get up!" Isildur ordered. "Save what's left of your dignity and face your doom with honor."

The king did not rise, but remained on the floor at Isildur's feet as if he were a dog.

"You shall be the last king," Isildur began. "And should the West prove mightier than your dark master, this curse I lay upon you and your people: to never rest, not even in death, until your oath is fulfilled. For I deem that this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end."

All those who had remained to bear Isildur's wrath now ran in fear at his curse. The king, all dignity forsaken, crawled away like a whipped dog back to his palace. None now dared stand before the furious rebukes of this great lord of Gondor.

* * *

><p>After the incident in Waw, Isildur and Ohtar rode back to Pelargir, through day and night. When they arrived, their animals were given into the care of the stable-master of Pelargir while they embarked on their vessels and took to sea. The journey would be long and difficult, for their ships could only sail with the wind and tide.<p>

Great were the vessels of Numenor, yet not even those could go against the flow of nature. They sailed along the coast of Middle-Earth, with the shores upon the right hand. Fair wind blessed their voyage as far as the cape of Anfalas.

Now they faced the full force of the west wind, unabated by the Ered Nimrais. It sought constantly to blow their ships back onto the shores. Therefore Isildur had the oars brought out and men to man them. No slaves were these, for though Numenor brought many lesser men into slavery while they forsook the worship of the Valar, the Faithful were not such. Indeed, the Elves - with whom the Faithful, the "Elf-friends", had a once close friendship - said that no Free Peoples should have slaves. All were the Children of Eru Illuvatar, and if any held sway over the Children, it was the Valar, not the other children. Furthermore, it was a policy of the Dark Tower to enslave the 'lesser' people, those who were not violent and cruel, like the orcs or Moredain.

So it was that these oarsmen were treated well, and given frequent periods where those who were exhausted - usually few and far between, by reason of their Dunedain strength and endurance - were allowed to rest and regain their strength. Those who remained rowed against the wind, for after a week and a half on their journey around the coast of Gondor, Isildur ordered their pace increased. They had to reach the Grey Havens before Midsummer, which was fast approaching.

One night, a month after their pace had increased, Isildur was up on the deck of his flagship, the _Ithilgalad_, looking out at the edge of the sea, vanishing into the darkness beyond. With him, on the rail of the ship, was his esquire, his best friend and only confidant.

"Do you miss it?" Ohtar asked.

"Hmm?"

"Numenor," he added. "I grew up in Angrenost, then I was posted at Minas Ithil after my number came up."

"Isengard?" Isildur laughed. "You're too young, my friend. Barely a child of nine and forty."

"And you?"

"Two hundred and forty." Isildur returned. They both laughed.

"Oh, the look on the faces of those who know not the Dunedain!"

They both had a good, long laugh, then Isildur looked back across the sea.

"Yes, my friend," he said at last. "I_ do_ miss our island home. Unlike you, I'm old enough to have known the Isle of Westernesse as my home." He sighed. "It breaks my heart to know that I shall never see it again. Never see another Andunie sunset, or see the sun reflected off the golden dome of the Temple at Meneltarma."

"It must be grief beyond words, sire."

"It is," Isildur sighed. "Even having grown up, a man of a hundred and ten years, it was hard to leave home when my Father ordered it. I-I remember asking myself 'Why? Why must we be robbed of our home, the land of our fathers, our home for over three thousand years?'"

"It was the folly of Ar-Pharazon that led to our downfall."

"Your parents taught you well." He slapped Ohtar on the shoulder. "So it was. Yet even now, in our land of exile, I wonder...will the Dunedain ever have their day? Will the sins of Ar-Pharazon ever be forgotten, and will the deeds of the Faithful ever be remembered?"

"I am confident, milord," Ohtar said. "That if there is any lord of Men able to bring honor to the Dunedain, and redeem the people of Numenor, it is you."

Isildur nodded, looking out into the West, at Numenor that was, at Valinor that is and Beyond that shall be...

* * *

><p>The morning came with a great white light. The tops of the Ered Luin, hidden by the rising of the sun, looked blue against her day-springing. But the eyes of Ohtar saw a sight that none ever saw this way coming. For not since the War of Wrath had many ships come eastward towards the vale of Mithlond, and the Grey Havens.<p>

Ohtar immediately walked down into the hold and roused his master from his slumber.

"My lord, we are in sight of Mithlond. We've reached the northern lands."

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Thank you <em>Define X<em> for your reviews. As far as the succession goes, I thought that since Isildur is the first-born son, he would have inherited Arnor, while Anarion, the second-born, ruled Gondor and his heirs after him: that way neither brother is slighted.)**

**(After this chapter, we shall feature many characters of the Eldar race. Horay!)**


	5. Out of the West

**(AN: I'm sure to be saying this more frequently throughout my tale, so here is the first time: the _Silmarillion_ is pretty much the Bible for Tolkien's legendarium. As such, I will base many things featured in my story off what was stated in that book.)**

**(I know the _Lord of the Rings_ trading card game has Anarion with a beard, but in this tale, I am having him clean-shaven. After all, the images of the Argonath [at least in the film] have one clean-shaven and one bearded. My guess is that Isildur is the bearded one, since he is obviously the elder of the two brothers [though not as epic as that statue shows], which leaves Anarion as the second one [Aragorn said which ones they were in the book chapter "The Great River".]. Also 'the Star of Silmarien' is pretty much 'the Star of Elendil'. Though, obviously, it would be known as _her_ star rather than his in an age when the Dunedain were pining for lost Numenor. Just my thoughts on that.)**

**(Enjoy)  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Out of the West<strong>

_3429 S.A._

Isildur's refugees disembarked at the Mithlond havens and made their way east, past the Tower Hills. They were en route to the capital city of Fornost. Though it was out of their way, they paused briefly east of the Tower Hills to gaze upon the lands between Fornost Erain, the Towers and Tyrn Gorthad. The towers marked the western border, with Fornost at the north-east and Gorthad - a newly created burial ground for all those who died - at the south-east. But this land that stretched between, separated by the Baranduin in the east, was a beautiful country. No Man had yet inhabited this verdant land, where it seemed that no weeds grew, and the trees and herbs were always the best and most wholesome. This land was the best land of all the lands of Eriador, yet Men did not use it for their own.

The capital city of Annuminas sat upon the shores of Lake Evendim, in an arm of the Forlindon branch of the Ered Luin. As great as Osgiliath was for Gondor, Annuminas for Arnor was even greater.

* * *

><p>Ohtar remained with the men as Isildur went to the palace to meet with the High King, his father. They found room at the barracks of Annuminas - for thence all soldiers and men-at-arms went while they were in their armor and on duty. Isildur had no need of his servant, at least not yet, and so he was allowed to stay with Isildur's company.<p>

As they were enjoying the mid-day meal, the men stood at attention. Isildur had entered the barracks.

"Oh, don't get up," he said. "By all means, stay. We won't be going anywhere any time soon."

Ohtar walked the length of the room over to his lord.

"My lord," he said. "What troubles you?"

Isildur sighed. "My father, the King, is not at home. His servant told me that, several months ago, about the time Minas Ithil was sacked, my father repaired to Elostirion and has not left or seen anyone since then. His rulings are carried out by a steward." He sighed again.

"What could be so important that would let father hand the reins of his kingdom over to a man of lesser virtue?"

"Something that requires the attention of a king?" Ohtar replied with a question.

Isildur sighed, then placed his hand on Ohtar's shoulder.

"Then my advice to you, old friend," he said. "Is to get comfortable. We might be here for a long while."

* * *

><p><em>3430 S.A.<em>

Midsummer's day came and went, and the winter months of Yule passed as well. A whole year had passed since the sacking of Minas Ithil, and no sign of Elendil was seen coming out of the west, returning to his city. During their stay, Isildur became privy ruler of Annuminas, taking over for the Steward. Fearful of what the king might say, the steward went in person to Elostirion and came back with the High King's answer.

_Let it be as my son has commanded._

So it was that Isildur inherited what his father had ordained. In the far east, reports came from the Weather Hills of a tower and fortress being built thereupon, which would house the largest of the Stones of the North. Ohtar knew of this because, during this time, the Squire of Isildur spent much time relaying the Prince's orders from Annuminas to Fornost Erain or to the new fortress and watch-tower of Amon Sul.

About the month of Astron, Isildur retreated into the highest tower of the palace at Annuminas. Ohtar he ordered to sit at the door, sending out his orders and rulings from the tower. This took place for many days, and Isildur did not come down, not even to sleep or to share the bed of Elian.

Suddenly, while Ohtar was starting to nod off, the door flung open.

"My lord!" he suddenly jumped awake.

"Come with me!" Isildur said, walking briskly down the stairs of the tower.

"Any news, milord?"

"Get the men ready," he began. "Marshall the garrison of Annuminas, send word to Fornost Erain. Soldiers and men-at-arms are to make for the Weather Hills in the space of seven days."

"If I may ask, what for?"

"We're at war, my old friend!" Isildur nigh shouted, though his voice held no wrath, but a fey glory. Here was one ready and willing to wade through the armies of Mordor to win honor for the House of Elendil.

* * *

><p>Amon Sul.<p>

Tall white walls, thick and mighty, and many blue-tiled domes looked out from that wind-swept plain. There were many small towers, but the greatest one sat upon a hill, and was taller and mightier than the rest, and a dome it had, like the Tower of Osgiliath.

Here they waited, while men from all across Arnor came for the Muster of the Dunedain. By the end of seven days, a great host of men were gathered here, their banners caught high in morning breeze.

So it was that, while examining the troops that morning, Isildur heard the clear ringing of silver trumpets from afar in the west.

"Ohtar, to horse!" he shouted to his squire. "I know those horns!"

"Aye?" Ohtar said as he saddled up.

"The High King of Arnor has returned!"

Mounted up, Isildur and Ohtar rode out from Amon Sul to the Great Road, where the Banner of Elendil - black, with the White Tree and the Seven Stars - flew proudly. But many other banners there were that Ohtar did not recognize. At their head flowed a violet banner, upon which was a diamond of gold with twelve stars within the diamond.

So it was that Ohtar saw at last the High King of both the Dunedain and the Noldor. They rode at the head of a great host, of both Men and Elves. At the one side was a Man of tall stature, with a beard to match that of his firstborn son. His squire carried his helmet, and upon his head was a circlet of _mithril_ set with a single diamond upon the brow: the Star of Silmarien. Such was Elendil the Tall, High King of Arnor and Lord of all the Faithful Dunedain.

At his right rode another warrior, tall and fair. Younger he looked than the bearded Elendil, yet grace and power he held in his very presence, and experience, such as would make the over three-hundred year old Elendil seem as but a child. With him he bore a great spear, almost twice his height, with _mithril_ wrought upon the spear-head. But no man was this great one, but an Elf lord.

"Hail, noble father!" Isildur greeted, raising his fist up to the level of his eyes in greeting. Elendil returned the greeting. "I regret that I was not able to meet you in Annuminas."

"It could not be avoided, my son," Elendil said. "I have stayed in Elostirion, with the Stone turned towards Tol Eressa for many days." He then introduced the Elf-lord to his son. "This is Gil-galad, son of Fingon, High King of the Noldor."

"_Ai na vedui Dunadan!_" Gil-galad greeted Isildur in the language of his people. "_Mae govannen mellon_."

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Whenever I read that passage in the <em>Silmarillion<em> of Elendil in the tower, looking for the coming of Gil-galad from out of the West, I get this mental image of him clutching the Stone, gazing out at the setting sun alone in the tower of Elostirion, looking all epic with the wind coming over the mountains, blowing his hair about freely. That is why I had him not at Annuminas. lol)**

**(More Elves to appear later. The chapter is an obvious reversal of the Annie Lennox song "Into the West" and the whole attachment that both the Eldar and the Dunedain have for the west. lol)**


	6. The Last Alliance

**(AN: This is why there were _no_ Elves at Helm's Deep: because if the Last Alliance was indeed the _last_ alliance, then that means there were no other great alliances of Men and Elves in the ages to come. True, the Elves fought with Earnur of Gondor against the Witch-King of Angmar, and Legolas Greenleaf represented the Elves in the Fellowship and the War of the Ring, but Elves fought their own battles in the War of the North and were not joined with Men as they were in _this_ tale.)**

* * *

><p><strong>The Last Alliance<strong>

_3430 S.A._

In a large hall at Amon Sul, many chairs and stools had been prepared for the great lords. For Gil-galad did not come alone in his march from the Havens. With him was Cirdan, a powerful and venerable lord of the Teleri who owned and governed the Mithlond. Old he was, like Eru Illuvatar himself, with a beard of gold and silver upon his chin: he was of the Elf-kind, yet his beard made him seem all too Mannish. Yet Ohtar felt save when he saw the lordly elf upon his white horse: for it seemed that even his presence inspired hope like a great flame of the heart.

These great lords were gathered in the hall, with Isildur and Elendil. All their servants attended them, whether sending messages to and from their troops or passing their rulings or even gathering food and drink for the lords. So it was that Ohtar was present for much of the council, and heard something of what happened there.

"My son, lords of the Eldar," Elendil began. "We are called together at this dark hour to answer the threat of Mordor. The first blow came last year, in the month of June, which is Forelithe, with an attack on the city of Minas Ithil. We cannot wait for the Lord of Mordor to muster his full strength. We must act now, or the Kingdoms of Men shall surely fall." He then turned to Gil-galad.

"I leave the floor to you," he said.

"I will speak," Gil-galad began. "Somewhat of the evil of the Dark Lord of Mordor. For though my lord Elendil says that the first blow came last year, this is but one of many blows. This war has lasted for many centuries, long before the shadow fell on Numenor. The Dunedain are but new-comers to this war."

"Late may be the hour of the coming of the Dunedain," Isildur said. "Yet I doubt not that together, united against our common enemy, the Dark Lord of Mordor, the West shall see victory."

"An alliance?" Cirdan queried. "Have not the Men of Westernesse caused grief enough against the Eldar? Were not the Eldar banned from the Isle of the Star, and had not the Dunedain forsaken the Valar, to follow after the folly of Mordor?"

"It is said, my lord Cirdan," Isildur returned. "That the Dark Lord went even unto the Elves."

"And to Durin's folk," the Teleri returned.

"There is nothing to hide," Gil-galad said. "It is true, that he who calls himself the Giver of Gifts came to the Noldor, seeking our alliance. Yet we did not give into the deceptions of the Dark Lord so easily. For the scion of Morgoth, the One Enemy, we saw in his puppet, the Dark Lord Sauron."

Gasps came from Cirdan and from Isildur. Even Elendil balked at the name.

"Yes," Gil-galad continued. "Let us not be afraid to name our enemy. Fear of a name only increases the fear of the thing, and thus is the policy of the Dark Tower: that his servants speak not his right name out of fear. But let it not be hidden from those who fight against the Dark Lord. For verily he looks at the lands of Men with hatred and disgust and envy, and a desire for vengeance."

"'Vengeance?'" Isildur asked.

"Indeed," Cirdan nodded. "For it was by the hand of Tar-Calion, who is known in the Adunaic as Ar-Pharazon that Sauron was defeated and brought to Numenor in shame, and his servants fled in their cowardice. He will not forget a wrong done to him, I fear. For even now, he defies the mercy of the Valar by creating his realm in Mordor in mockery of that of his master."

"The legends say that Morgoth once ruled all of Middle-Earth, and all things were under his shadow." Elendil stated.

"So it was in the days of my father," Gil-galad said. "When Beleriand had not fallen and Gondolin was still in its might. But Beleriand is beneath the sea and the world is sundered." He paused.

"Yea, even the races of Elves and Men are sundered. Many of my people do not trust the Dunedain, for they say they are easily seduced and corrupted by power. Many also remember the persecutions against the Eldar when Numenor rebelled and fell into darkness."

"Yet that darkness," Isildur said. "Will cover all this land if we cannot defeat him."

"Can we defeat him?" Elendil asked.

"Father..."

"Elendil is right," Gil-galad said. "It was believed, and hoped, by many that Sauron was destroyed when Numenor foundered in the Sea at the time of it's downfall. Yet now he marshals his forces from the Black Land of Mordor. What hope is there that Sauron can be defeated by strength of arms, if even the changing of the world cannot destroy him?"

A length of silence followed. Then at last Elendil stood forth.

"With or without hope," he said. "I shall march to war with Sauron. The Dunedain and the Eldar may forevermore speak with contempt the name of Ar-Pharazon, yet it was by his hand that Sauron was defeated. Would that the Valar would grant me such a victory: not for myself, but for all the Free Peoples."

Gil-galad rose forth.

"You shall not stand alone," he said. "Long have the Noldor resisted the Darkness of Mordor, and though the whole world falls around us, we will never submit to Sauron again."

"Let all past hatreds and prejudices be put aside, if only for the sake of war," Cirdan said, joining the others. "Though I fear that they will not be wholly undone. Years will pass and the Edain and the Eldar shall go down their separate paths: maybe they will never join again."

He smiled as he held out his hand, and all their hearts burned with passion and no fear was within them.

"Yet we shall join in our common cause," he said. "A last alliance of Edain and Eldar, to combat the Dark Lord of Mordor, to resist the shadow and to save Middle-Earth."

Gil-galad waved a servant forward and summoned for his spear. Moments later, the spear was returned. Now in his hand, he held the giant beam aloft and cried:

"Aiglos! Aiglos for the Noldor!"

Not to be out-done, Elendil spoke to his squire and called for his sword. A fine piece it was, forged by Telchar the Dwarf in the darkness of the Elder Days, in the fashion of the blades of Men. As Elendil removed it from its sheath and held it aloft, towards the spear Aiglos, a red fire erupted from the blade, one that held and did not die out.

"Narsil! Narsil for the Dunedain!"

Ohtar felt as though he could, if ordered, charge single-handed into Mordor and take on the tower of Barad-dur all by himself. Little did he know that it might just come to that.

* * *

><p><em>3431 S.A.<em>

A whole year passed at Amon Sul with not much happening. The Dunedain trained for war and recruited more soldiers, sometimes as young as twenty. Smithies rang night and day with the sound of hammers pounding out new armor and weapons for the soldiers. Horses from Rhovanion and Lindon were brought in and bred for war. Elven warriors in Cirdan and Gil-galad's forces trained the warriors of Men for battle.

There came a day, at last, when Isildur was summoned to the tent of Gil-galad. Ohtar, as was his duty, followed along behind. They came to the tent - a tall one, finely woven with many fair symbols and embroidered with gold thread - and Isildur entered first, ordering Ohtar to stay.

The tent was not so thick nor the noise of preparations so loud that Ohtar could not hear what went on inside.

"I've spoken with your lord Elendil," the Elven King said. "We're moving out tomorrow."

"But we can't be ready by then!" Isildur returned. "It's only been a year."

"Ready we are not," Gil-galad stated. "For we must go east to Imladris. There many of the smithies of Eregion have taken refuge after the destruction of that realm by Sauron. They will be more than willing to join our cause if they can, or, if not, to offer their metal-working skills."

Silence.

"I understand."

Moments later, the tent opened and Isildur returned.

"Were you listening to what just happened?" he queried.

"No, my lord. Merely waiting for your orders." That was how things went in a master-servant relationship. The master attended to great deeds while his servant stood, waiting for his call. Yet it seemed that even servants knew much of what was going on, for they heard everything that their masters spoke of when they thought they were not listening.

"We're moving out." Isildur ordered.

"I'll get your tent packed in twenty minutes, my lord!" Ohtar said, jumping ready for action at these new orders.

"Make it ten! These Elves seem to be faster than us at everything."

* * *

><p>In five minutes, Ohtar had taken down both his lord's tent and his own. The whole of the camp was in a buzz, the soldiers girded their loins for the long march. Tents were coming down, horses and wains laden with the provisions that may be needed on the road ahead. Banners started flying high as the companies were organizing around their captains.<p>

Soon the banner of Elendil was flying, leading the Men of Arnor and Isildur's warriors of Gondor eastward. Horns were sounding as the troops began their march.

"Sound the trumpet! We're moving out!" Isildur said to his esquire. Ohtar took out a horn and blew upon it long and hard.

"Move out!" he shouted. Then, as he was wont to do, he rose the banner of Minas Ithil and followed Isildur's horse as they began the long march into the east.

A march of six days lay ahead of them, one that they must make with all haste. The march was slow with all their armies and provisions and such, and so it was only that evening that they passed through the wooded land at the bottom of the Weather Hills.

"Keep your wits sharp, men!" Isildur said as they entered the tree-land at the setting of the sun. "Trolls inhabit these wild lands."

So it was that when they at last made camp, that several sentries and night-watchmen were posted, to alert the army in case of trolls. This was the most dangerous time, nightfall in the Troll-shaws, for trolls, who turned to stone in the light of day, would roam at night for their prey.

Yet the night passed without as much as the stench of one troll to disquiet either armies. They continued their march eastward, always on the look-out for anything that might assail them. But the wild creatures were afraid of so great a host of Men and no creature of darkness would approach one Elf lord revealed in all of his glory, much less these many thousands of Elves.

At the morning of the fourth day from their march out of Amon Sul, the camp of Elendil happened upon a strange sight. A messenger was sent to summon Gil-galad, Cirdan and Isildur to the front of the column to investigate this strange occurrence.

Out front of Elendil's camp, at least thirty feet high, was a pile of gold, silver, jewels, armor, weapons, precious stones and lots of dead sheep.

"Gil-galad," Elendil said to the Elf-lord. "Can you divine the meaning of this...this...offering?"

"Perhaps," he said. "Though it surprises me that this would be here."

"What do you mean?" Isildur asked.

"This looks like the contents of a troll's cave," he explained. "But it-it makes no sense. The trolls were always servants of the Enemy, bred in mockery of the Tree-herds. Why then would they give us this offering?"

"A token of peace?" Elendil suggested. "After all, what troll would be stupid enough to attack our army?"

"Verily..." Gil-galad began.

"I think Elendil is right," Cirdan interjected. "Trolls may not be the wisest of the Enemy's corruptions, yet they have little sense of their own and fear is in their stony hearts - if not, there would be many troll-statues dotting this land. I think they only want us to pass through their land without hunting them."

"But is that wise, milord?" Gil-galad asked. "If we let them lie, they will only come after us another time."

"No, no," the Teleri shook his blond-gray head. "Our Enemy lies in the East. Haste is our greatest weapon now, and therefore we must pass through this land. Take whatever armor or weapons from that horde that is in good condition and unspoiled. Leave the sheep."

And so they left this camp with their wains even fuller with the increase of the troll-hoards. The march soldiered on through the rough lands, and they saw no more sign of trolls or any other foul creatures. Though there were often a great number of birds flying in the sky: no more than a normal flock of birds, yet these were not migratory. For it was the middle of summer and not yet time for them to make their way south for the winter.

At last a day came when their path was blocked by a raging river. It was pouring over its banks, rushing and lavering with great fury. At the present, there was no bridge in their immediate location. It would take time to cut down the trees in this land to make a bridge great enough for their host to pass through. But at last Gil-galad came forth and held his right hand out, palm open, towards the river.

"_Nin o Cithaeglir, lasto beth daer; edro hi ammen!_"

Twice more he repeated this challenge, and then, to the surprise of all, the waters coming from the mountains halted, and the river-bed was now shallow enough to cross without wetting even the feet in their boots.

So it was that the army came to the borders of the land that was called Imladris, but Men in latter days called Rivendell, the Last Homely House West of the Hithaeglir.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: According to the <em>Silmarillion<em> and the timeline at the back of the _Lord of the Rings_, they stayed ****at Rivendell preparing for _three_ years! So the chapter or two [or three] will be long, kind of like "The Council of Elrond". lol)**

**(Also, yay for Cirdan! He doesn't get much attention, but he will in my story. And he really _did_ have a beard. Also, it is said that he was the lieutenant of Gil-galad, yet I have Gil-galad call him 'my lord'. A lot of lords would do that, call other lords 'my lord'. That was, imo, a sign of humility among other lords, or [sometimes] of jest. [though not in this case]).**


	7. Rivendell

**(AN: Posted a chapter from another story instead of this one [first time that's ever happened, I'm so embarassed]. So sorry if you get a warning that a chapter had been placed that's not there. _This_ is the real chapter!)**

**(We meet some new characters [and an OC] here at Rivendell. Also, the future of Arnor [and all of Middle-Earth] is secured in something that happens here.)**

* * *

><p><strong>Rivendell<strong>

_3431 S.A._

As they passed into the courtyard of the main hall of Imladris, they were greeted by an Elf lord. Ageless he appeared, neither young nor old, yet his face was written with wisdom and experience beyond even that of many of the Elf-lords of this day. This was Elrond Peredhil, son of Earendil, brother of Elros Tar-Minyatur, leader of the refugees from Eregion and lord of Imladris.

"_Mae govannen_," Elrond greeted Gil-galad in their ancient tongue, then spoke to all in the Westron. "I saw your coming from afar, and was amazed. Methought the hosts of Beleriand had risen up from out of the sea to pull down Thangorodrim once again."

"Nay, but it is to the bringing down of the realm of his servant that we are come." Gil-galad returned. He then turned and showed those others who were with him. Elrond bowed to Cirdan, but came to a halt before Elendil.

"My lord," the High King of Arnor bowed. To their surprise, Elrond embraced Elendil with open arms, laughing as he did.

"We are kin, you and I," he said. "We need not stand on formalities." At this, Elendil looked surprised. "Do you not know that Elros, whom your people name Tar-Minyatur, was my brother, who chose the Doom of the Edain?"

Elendil returned with a smile.

"Though all the years pass between us," Elendil said. "The Men of Westernesse will never forget our greatest friends, our brothers."

At this, Elrond became grave and took a step back.

"These last few centuries have been proof to the contrary," he said. The shadow then passed, and he looked all them all in turn.

"My friends," he said. "You are welcome to me and my house, as are all Free Folk."

Such was their introduction to Elrond and the House of Rivendell. Here there lived many people of Eregion, refugees from that place when Sauron destroyed it almost two thousand years ago.

* * *

><p>The months passed by swiftly, and Ohtar saw very little of Elendil, Gil-galad, Cirdan or Elrond. Isildur also would take secret council with them long into the night, allowing Ohtar to roam about this Homely House off of his duty.<p>

It was on one such occasion, in the golden hours of the afternoon, that he happened to see a group of Elves walking by, singing in their ancient tongue. He was instantly enraptured by the beauty of the music, for it seemed to create in his mind images of Beleriand in its beauty and the great halls of Nargothrond. But it was also filled with sadness, for it lamented great loss: the loss of Valinor, the loss of the Trees and the loss of Beleriand.

"May I help you?"

As soon as the voice had spoken, the vision was gone and Ohtar found himself in the waking world. The Elves were gone, save for one, a lady clad in pale blue, with hair like midnight.

"My apologies, lady," he said. "It seems as though I were in a dream."

"Does it please you?"

"Hmm?"

"The singing of my people."

"Yes," Ohtar responded, but he did not smile. "I think. It is very sad, and filled with memory."

"Such is the way of my people," she returned. "Our eyes have too often been turned to the past, I fear that, for good or ill, the time of the Eldar is drawing swiftly to a close."

"I pray that day never comes," Ohtar said. "The world will be a little more dull without the Elf-kind."

She smiled. "Fair-tongued are the lords of the Dunedain."

"Oh, I'm no lord," Ohtar blushed. "I'm just a servant. Ohtar is my name, and I serve the lord Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil."

"I am Nenwe of Gondolin," she replied.

"Gondolin?" Ohtar queried. "But that cannot be. It was an age ago that it fell along with Beleriand into the sea, or so the lore-masters tell us."

"And so it was," she replied. "Yet I was born in Gondolin and raised in Eregion, which was my home until it was destroyed."

"B-But that would make you over three thousand ye..." He came to a halt, for he remembered that he was blushing. She certainly did not look that old: in fact, if her hair hadn't been pulled back away from her ears, he would have figured her for a Dunedain maid of sixty.

"Such is the life of the Eldar," she returned, a smile on her face. "To us, the other races are but children."

Ohtar always felt young, even now at the age of fifty-one. But this Elf-maid seemed proud of being as old as she was, and vaunted it before this fifty-year-old Dunedain 'child.'

* * *

><p>Many more months passed, and the lords continued their planning and the Elven smiths of Eregion made weapons for the soldiers and armor to be matched. The sound of warriors being trained in the gardens and courtyards of Imladris interrupted the usual day sound of song and laughter of the Elves.<p>

"We can train here for as long as you like," Elrond said to the men of Isildur's company assembled before him, for their daily rounds of training. "But it will make little difference. On the battlefield, the orc is your enemy. He will be unpredictable!" He attacked one of the nearest Dunedain, who rose up his shield to defend the blow. It pounded off the beaten wood and sheet metal, but Elrond did not look pleased.

"You move too slow!" he said. "The orcs carry whatever weapons they can get their foul hands upon: one will attack with a sword..." He attacked again. "While another with an ax..." One of the Elven captains at his side joined in the throng, swinging his ax at Ohtar, who ducked to avoid the blow.

"Or the lance!" A spear-wielding Elf charged at a Dunedain, who kicked the spear aside. "Or the hammer!" An Elf with a blacksmith's hammer hit the unbalanced Dunedain in the back with the hammer. It struck the plate and mail, and he was not seriously injured.

"Balance is everything!" Elrond drilled on. "Balance will be your weapon against the enemy. Orcs do not have balance. They have goblins - shorter, quicker and more aggressive. They have black uruks: huge and tall, their armor is thick and their shields broad. They have Men, who will attempt to have some order in their ranks. They are unbalanced. We must face them with balance. A horde of orcs will crash against a well-trained phalanx of Eldar and Dunedain warriors, but not without balance!"

At this, Isildur walked up to the training yard. Elrond bowed with a curt nod, then gave Isildur's warriors back to their lord.

"Off with you, now," he said. "Have your board, you must be starving." One by one they began to disperse. "Ohtar, stay a while." As they left, even Elrond to oversee the other training groups, Isildur brought Ohtar aside to a deserted alcove.

"I need your help," he said.

"Well, I'm at your service, milord." Ohtar returned without question.

"I need you to ride to Annuminas," he said. "Return with my lady Elian."

"But, sire, we are preparing for war. We do not have time for..."

"Preparing indeed!" he exclaimed. "I've been in council with my father and the Elf-lords. They said that we will not be ready for another year or two. They say that patience is the key, that we must wait and build up our strength for our blow against the Enemy."

"Isn't that what prudence demands?"

"Anarion doesn't have time for prudence!" he replied. "The longer we wait, the more forces the Enemy will amass and the more likely it will be that Gondor will be over-run. Will we destroy our Enemy only to find our kingdoms in ruin upon our return?"

He sighed.

"As long as we're here, waiting to be ready," he said. "Might as well bring my Elian here. She would enjoy this place. It's perfect for anything, for food, sleep, story-telling, singing, or just sitting and thinking...or-or a pleasant mixture of them all!"

Ohtar smiled. "You seem smitten with this place."

"Ah, it reminds me of fair Ithilien!" His face fell at these words. "How my heart aches to think that, without Minas Ithil, that fair land will be at the mercy of our Enemy."

"My lord," Ohtar said, placing his hand upon his lord's shoulder. "My lord's brother, King Anarion, is a worthy lord, and Osgiliath is the greatest city of Gondor..." He then thought differently. "...apart from Minas Ithil."

"Nay, my friend, but you are right. For the Queen of Gondor's cities is indeed greater and fairer than even her maid-servant, Minas Ithil."

"Still, I have every hope that Anarion will hold the armies of Mordor at bay."

"Still," Isildur returned. "I would this small favor. If we are to be here for a long time, I would care to have my Elian with me." He sighed. "Elrond has said that Imladris has not fallen to an enemy, nor will it. She will be safest here."

* * *

><p>That night, Ohtar saddled his horse and rode out of Imladris in secrecy. No need to sound the trumpets to say that a servant was going west to bring the beloved of his master to this place. He clad himself in a dark green cloak, the color of the woods, and rode in travel gear, with a sword and bow upon his person as his only armament. Then again, he was always better with the bow, so that was really all he needed. But arrows made poor blades, and it might just come to blows, should the worst happen.<p>

He came to the waters of the Bruinen river, whose course had much lessened of late. The arrival of Gil-galad, it seems, had put the waters to rest for the time being. Thanking the Valar, Ohtar rode over the shallow ford and continued on his way.

Suddenly he became aware that he was being followed. With skill and speed second only to that of an Elf-lord, he drew his bow, fitted an arrow upon the string, bent the yew wood back and let a shaft loose directly behind him. There was a cry, but not the sound of an orc receiving a wound.

It was a woman's voice.

Drawing out his sword, Ohtar leaped off his horse and tried to follow his arrow, as best he could in the dark. He did not have to go far, for the light of a torch was coming from a wooded area near the ford. Here he saw a horse, standing at the side of a tree quite impatiently. It's rider was clothed in a gray cloak that faded between gray, green and the color of tree bark. It was also pinned to the tree by Ohtar's arrow.

"My apologies, lady!" Ohtar said earnestly. "But it is not safe to be wandering out in darkness." He removed the arrow from the tree and out of her cloak.

"No more safe it is to be deserting."

He knew that voice.

"You!"

"I have a name, you know." she returned. "I suggest you use it, coward."

"Watch your tongue, Elf!" he turned his sword in her direction. "I am on an errand for my lord and am no coward!"

"Indeed?" she asked. "One that takes you away from your lord in the middle of the night, fleeing from Imladris under cover of darkness?"

"Yes," Ohtar said. "I am in haste. Return to your master or stay out of my way. I must complete this task."

He leaped back atop his horse and rode on through the darkness, his mission and charge still ahead of him.

* * *

><p>Daylight dawned over the Troll-shaws. Ohtar was asleep against a tree, his cloak wrapped about his body for warmth. His horse stood nearby, grazing off the grass. There was no sign of the Elf-lady, at least none that his skills could discern.<p>

He awoke, as per natural for those who are day-dwellers. Though his time of travel must needs be the night, so that he could be awake and alert to defend himself against those creatures that roam in the night. For trolls were not the only dangers here in these lands.

Regardless, he rode on through the land and came to Amon Sul in three days time with no opposition. He told the captain left in charge of Amon Sul to send any available troops to Imladris while he rides north-westward to Annuminas.

After four days of riding, the whitened walls of Annuminas looming over the grey lake of Evendim rose up on the horizon. Ohtar's heart lifted at the sight of the capital. With renewed haste, he rode through the city streets and made his way to the palace. To any who attempted to halt his advance, he said only thus:

"I am in haste, on an urgent mission for the Lord Isildur. Let me pass!"

At last he came to the quarters of Her Lady Elian, queen of Minas Ithil. He pushed the doors open and knelt before the lady.

"My lady," he began. "I bring news from my lord Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, your lord and husband." He panted lightly as he spoke. "Tell your maids to get your things in order, for we shall depart at once for the refuge of Imladris."

"Is Arnor in danger?" she asked, whispering to Ohtar so as to not alarm her ladies.

"In these times," Ohtar replied. "I know not which place is spared from becoming a frontier of this war." He then spoke up. "But my lord Isildur wish your presence in Imladris at once."

She nodded. "I will prepare at once."

* * *

><p>In a short time, the lady of Ithil and three of her maids were prepared. A wain they commissioned, along with a lady's carriage: into the first went their belongings and the lady's dresses and into the carriage the lady and her servants. Ohtar led the carriage, which was driven by an old gray-beard, while the wain was driven by a guard from the city.<p>

Now the difficult part would come. Three days from Annuminas to Fornost Erain, then about a day's march to Amon Sul and six days to Imladris meant that a march of ten days lay ahead of them. Ohtar knew that Isildur had one of the Stones - perhaps the Ithil stone (was that why he ran back into the City while it was besieged?). If he could only use it, Ohtar mused, then perhaps he would not have cause for nervousness.

They met with no resistance on the road to Fornost Erain, nor at Amon Sul. They changed their horses at the stables for fresh ones, save for Ohtar. His horse, named Turin after the ancient champion of men, was of noble stock and did not tire easily.

That evening, the shadows were growing long and they were on the road, with trees overhanging their path.

"Milord!" the old man said to Ohtar. "We should stop for the night."

"Not here," Ohtar called back. "We're not out of troll-country. If we stop here, we might be way-laid."

"So what shall we do, then?" the old man queried. "I'm not used to sleeping at day and riding at night."

"We keep going," Ohtar insisted. "We have to clear these trees. It will be harder for trolls to escape the sun on the open moorlands between here and the Bruinen. There we can rest in p-"

Before he could continue, a tree suddenly fell down in the road before them. Turin neighed nervously, and Ohtar looked to his sides. He hadn't noticed that it was later than he had thought it to be: the sun had already gone down far behind the Ered Luin in the west.

The roaring of trolls sounded from the trees. Ohtar knew that they were trapped.

"To arms!" he alerted the elder and the wain-driver. "Protect the carriage at all costs!"

Suddenly, another something came growling from the right. Ohtar was thrown from off Turin's back as a wolf leaped on the carriage, knocking the old man off just as he was taking out his sword. A hideous snarl came from the wolf, followed by the old man's cry for help. Drawing his own sword, Ohtar drove it through the wolf's body.

Just then, a boulder grazed his armor and he fell forward. The trolls were advancing. One of them had turned over the wain, looking to see if there was anything of value inside. The other had picked up the old man by the leg and was picking him up for the kill. Ohtar struck out, but his sword broke against the stone-hard hide of the troll's legs. A kick from the stubby, toe-less foot sent him back to the ground.

An arrow came out of nowhere, striking the troll in the throat. Then another and another, flying fast as hail, always aiming for the head of the troll closest to the carriage. One arrow pierced its eye, and it sent the beast flailing about. One of its large hands nudged the wagon, which was enough to tip it on its wheels, almost sending it over. But the troll was now stumbling back toward the trees. The other one, as if in fear, ran off, abandoning his comrade.

Ohtar rose to his feet as their rescuer appeared.

"It's not like the Dunedain," Nenwe said. "To be caught off their guard like that."

"You again?"

"I just saved your life," she said. "And the best you have to say is 'You again'?"

"My apolo..."

"Your apologies, I know." she returned. "They're not needed."

"You were following me?" Ohtar queried.

"Elrond's orders," she began. "He has the gift of foresight. He said that your mission was of the greatest importance, that the fate of Middle-earth clung to the success or failure of your task. I'm here to see that it succeeds."

"My thanks," he nodded. "Though if I had known that you were so armed, I would have spoken less harshly before."

"It is not banned that women should learn to bear arms," Nenwe said as she lowered her bow and approached them. "But neither is it taken lightly that women should enter battle. We are the healers and life-givers of our people: to lose us is a greater loss than the loss of a single man. For if the sons of Feanor would have slain Elwing in their siege of Doriath, neither you nor I would be here today, and the race of Numenor would not exist."

Ohtar was stunned at the enormity of this situation. Their whole existence, it seemed, depended on such small, seemingly trivial things as whether this person survived or no. It seemed too great a burden for mortals to make, to decide who gets to live and who must die in order for the greater order of things to be achieved. It belonged to none, or, if anyone, to Eru Illuvatar.

* * *

><p>In the morning, they journeyed on. Nenwe rode ahead with her bow and Ohtar took the carriage. The old man, having been mauled by the wolf, he buried on the side of the road beneath a pile of stones. The wain-driver was unscathed, and continued with them on their journey.<p>

As they approached the Bruinen, they saw that it was raging once again. Ohtar knew not how they could get across. He was not familiar with this land and knew not the way to the fords, nor had he the power to command the River to stay its course and allow their passing.

To his surprise, he saw a man sitting by the river's edge, whistling to himself a merry tune. The fellow's clothing was quite outlandish: a hat with a single feather in it, a bright blue jacket and two mud-caked yellow boots upon his feet.

"I say, _adar_," Nenwe greeted. "What brings you here?"

"Huh? Oh, there ye are!" he said, laughing as he rose from his spot. "I've been lookin' for ye now for a fair while."

"Is that why you are outside of your own land?" Nenwe continued.

"Quite right, milady," the gentleman bowed. "But other things bring ol'Tom away from Goldberry and the Withywindle. Things are changing in the world down south. Good, harmless creatures are bein' turned over ta' dark wickedness. But I'm nay fighter, just a keeper."

"Who is this?" Ohtar asked, stepping down from the carriage and approaching Nenwe.

"Show respect!" Nenwe hissed, then spoke aloud again. "This is Iarwain-ben-Adar."

"Old Orlad?" Ohtar queried, recognizing the name. "But I thought he was just a legend, some hermit living in these lands back when it was all but a forest."

"Legend?" Orlad laughed. "Heh! I've been here a'fore the first ships, a'fore the seas was bent, a'fore the west-lands was lost, and ol'Tom'll be here once the grass grows long over your barrow, sonny. I am the Master, after all."

"If you are the master," Ohtar said. "Can you make us a path to cross through this river?"

"Loudwater, here?" He pointed to the river. "Oh, why didn't ye say so in the firs' place?" He stood up and, to Ohtar's surprise, began singing to the river.

_Loudwater, calm your wrath  
>Hold, for none but friends pass<br>Into your wells and cisterns go  
>Till elven voices bid you flow<em>

At once, the flow of the river began to lessen, until, once again, there was a path for the wains to carry them across the river.

"Many thanks, Orlad!" Ohtar smiled.

"T'was nothin'," he shook his head. "Off with ye, now. Ye'll find no dangers on the road to Rivendell now. Stars guide your path an' all. Can't take ye all the way, Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting!"

With a tip of his hat, he danced off into the woods, singing and laughing as he went.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Good ol' Orlad, who never made it up to Peter Jackson's standards of acceptability [but nulling the valiant sacrifice of the men of Gondor and Rohan by making the Dead Men of Waw show up to the Battle of Pelennor Fields was okay].<strong>**)**

**(Yes, it was crucial to the fate of Middle-earth that this mission be carried out. For those who have the book, look at the genealogies of the Kings of Arnor and the Chieftains of the Dunedain: you will see why it was important.)**

**(As for the trolls, as I said before, the _Silmarillion_ said that all races, even of birds and beasts, were divided, with some on the Alliance and some for Mordor [only the Elves were solely for the Alliance]. I had to make a way for the trolls to be both evil and "neutral good". They were afraid of the great host, and gave them a 'peace offering' as a way of saying 'leave us alone'. But these trolls were under Sauron's control and so attacked. Sorry, no Olog-hai until the Third Age.)**


	8. The Alliance Moves Out

**(AN: Skipping ahead a few years here, since four years will be quite a long trial, and I have about thirteen more years to tell before this story comes to a complete and total conclusion.)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>The Alliance Moves Out<strong>

_3432 S.A._

The month of February, also known as Solmath, brought a time of much rejoicing to Imladris. For in the month of February, a son was born to Isildur and Elian. Elendil was very happy, to hold another grand-son in his arms. They named him Valandil, to signify that the exiles would not lapse into the darkness of Numenor but be friends of the Valar.

Several weeks after the birth of Valandil, Gil-galad summoned the captains of the Alliance together for another council. This one was not held in secrecy, for Ohtar was allowed to wait on his lord and attend the Council, though not permitted to speak unless called upon.

"Friends," Gil-galad began: for as High King of the Noldor, the Eldest of the Children of Eru, he held the highest rank. "It has been two years since our alliance was formed. We have trained ceaselessly, the refugee smiths of Eregion have given their assistance, we are welcome." Elrond nodded at him.

"But we are still not ready," he continued. "The Men progress at their training slower than the Eldar, and our numbers are too few. We need more warriors."

"What we need," Cirdan stated. "Is a plan. If, the Valar willing, we are victorious, we must do more than simply destroy the armed might of our Enemy. We must pull down Sauron's dark kingdom and destroy him utterly."

"I agree," Elendil said. "It's him or us. It's the only way. Ar-Pharazon may have defeated him, but he let him live, and it proved to be Numenor's undoing. There can be no quarter, no mercy for the Enemy of Elves and Men."

"The Elves would sooner cast all away," Elrond said. "Our homes, our freedoms and our life's grace, rather than submit to Sauron or heed his evil council again, as the smiths of Eregion did. The Eldar will never listen to him again, therefore we are in agreement. Sauron must be destroyed utterly."

"Then a war of arms will not be our only strength," Isildur said. "It is said that there is a tower in Mordor, the fortress of the One Enemy. From the top of Minas Ithil, its spires can be seen, like teeth rising up out of the east, or the arm of the power of...of Sauron."

"This fortress, then," Gil-galad said. "We must pull down."

"The Eldar do not wage war," Elrond said. "Therefore we do not have many engines of siege."

"There are some that do." Elendil said.

"Which?" Elrond queried.

"Some who have fought many wars," Elendil continued. "They have ever been friends to the Edain, and therefore they might yet serve us in our time of need."

At this, Cirdan shook his head.

"No, it is unacceptable," he said. "The Naugrim hide in their mountains, seeking riches, caring nothing for the troubles of others."

"Do you speak those words in truth," Isildur said. "Or out of the enmity that you yourself, as one of the Elves, bear against them?"

"How dare you speak to me in this way!" Cirdan spat back.

"Is it not true, my lord Cirdan," Isildur rose up. "That the Eldar and the Naugrim have ever been at odds with each other? Do the Elf-bards still sing of the great hunts led against the Petty-Naugrim in Nargothrond in the Elder Days?"

"We do remember," Elrond said. "How they shut the gates of Hadhodrond at the coming of the Shadow to Eregion."

"Silence!" Gil-galad interjected. "The Enemy's greatest weapon is our discord, it is the bane of our alliance. Far easier for Sauron to kill us all off one-by-one, while we fight among ourselves, than a united force." He sighed. "Cirdan, Elrond, as much as I myself have no desire to mingle with...the Naugrim, they do have engines of war that would be helpful in the days to come." He turned to Elendil.

"My lord Elendil," he said. "You have suggested this, therefore you shall send an emissary to Durin IV in Hadhodrond, requesting his allegiance against our common Enemy in the east."

Elendil nodded. Yet in his heart, he knew that, if it were to be universally accepted, Durin IV would need to see an emissary of the Eldar as well, to know that this decision was not made without their permission.

* * *

><p><em>3434 S.A.<em>

_The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The year 3434 of the Second Age of this World.  
><em>

_The day that we have waited and planned towards for these past four years has come_. _The vale of Imladris rings with the sound of smithies, both Men and Elvish, preparing weapons that have been untested in battle and have not tasted yet the black blood of the orcs. The last of our messengers have been sent abroad, to Hadhodrond, Greenwood, Lothlorien and Gondor__. All our allies, and every corner of Middle-earth that still stands free has been alerted to our march. Those who have the skill have decided to join us before our final march upon our great Enemy._

"How is that, my lord?" Ohtar said, presenting the page to Isildur.

He nodded in approval. "It's very good. We will have an account of our war with Sauron, that those who outlive us might know of our great deeds and sing in our memory."

Ohtar's face fell at the statement of 'those who outlive us'. It was as if even his lord did not hope to return from this war alive.

"I spoke in jest, old friend," Isildur smiled. "We _will_ return from out of the darkness, even if we suffer great loss, as Beren returned from out of Thangorodrim with only one hand."

He then turned to his beloved Elian as Ohtar continued packing up what else there was of his and his lord's belongings.

"I want you to remain here in Imladris, my lady," Isildur said. "You will be safe here, the Elves are kind, and little Valandil will have no better place to grow up than here. His brothers will have many tales of victory to tell when we return."

"I fear for your safety, my love!" she sobbingly whispered. "I fear that this war will see the loss of many lives before its end."

"Such is the way of all wars, Elian," he returned. "But I shall return to the North, and I shall fetch you back with me and we will return and live in peace at Ithilien..." He sighed. "Until I inherit the throne of Arnor." He smiled. "Then you shall be queen."

"I would rather be the wife of a prince," she said. "Than a widowed queen."

Isildur kissed her, then held her in his arms.

"Valar willing," he assured her. "I _will_ return to this place."

* * *

><p>At last all was assembled. The valleys echoed with the sound of steel against steel, of armor clanking upon the bodies of men and horses. There was little wind, so the banners did not blow about. At the head of the company, Ohtar was atop his horse, following on behind Isildur with the red banner of the moon with the Tree and Stars, when he saw a familiar face, checking the fittings of the armor she wore.<p>

"You again!" he returned.

"Will you ever call me by name?" she asked.

"Why are you going out to war?" he returned. "What about all that about healers and life-givers not permitted?"

"I said not that women are not permitted in war," she said. "I said that it is a decision not taken lightly. But I feel as though it is my duty to be here, though I know not how."

He said nothing else, for another figure had appeared, also clad in armor. He bore something wrapped in a blue cloth and presented it before Gil-galad, atop his white horse.

"My lord," Elrond said. "Let me ride with your host and serve you as the bearer of your banner and herald of your glory."

"Nay, my lord," Gil-galad returned. "For you are of much greater lineage than I, for it is to _your_ father that both Men and Elves look towards as they travel by sea or through darkness."

"My sire Earendil," Elrond said. "Earned his greatness by deeds, not by his ancestry. I humbly wish to prove myself worthy of the name son of Earendil by serving the High King in his war against Sauron."

"I accept your service, son of Earendil," Gil-galad returned. Elrond then brought forth his war-horse and mounted it, then unfurled the banner of Gil-galad.

"We await the order to march from our commanders!" Elrond said, turning to Gil-galad.

Gil-galad raised Aiglos high into the air, the morning sun-light glistening off the spear-head. Nearby, Elendil unsheathed Narsil, its fire blazing like the light of the westering sun.

"_**The lords of Men and**_** Elves****,**" Elrond announced. "_**Go forth to challenge the minions of**_** Sauron!**" He then seized a silver trumpet and blew a long blast upon it. Ohtar raised the banner of Isildur high, that all of his lord's company might see. The vale of Imladris rang with the cry of many horns as the host of the Last Alliance began to move southward.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Fun fun! Then we go on to the next chapter soon!)<strong>

**(Don't let the movies fool you. Elrond was Gil-galad's herald in the book, not a commander of the army, as it shows in the movies. As such, he and Ohtar will interact more often, since they are both at a 'similar' level, at least rank-wise.)**


	9. Caradhras

**(AN: An interesting chapter, maybe a little more confusing than the one with the trolls. But, as I said, I'm going on what is stated in the _Silmarillion_.)**

* * *

><p><strong>Caradhras<strong>

_3434 S.A._

_The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The year 3434 of the Second Age of this World._

_Twenty days it has been since the Host of the Alliance left Imladris. Our march to war has taken us southward, into the land of Eregion. All lies in waste before us, with the ruin of many great Elven cities on all sides. The commanders say that we are to march over the Hithaeglir and come down into the Gladden Fields on the eastern side to meet with our other allies._

Ohtar sighed. He would have liked to have gone south by way of the west road, to look upon Angrenost one last time. But now their path led them towards the tops of great mountains, three of which formed a pass by which men could walk from the land of Eriador to the land of Rhovanion. Those three mountains were Fanuidhol, crowned in clouds, the white pinnacle of Celebdil, and the red slopes of the greatest and most feared of those three mountains of the Hithaeglir:

Caradhras.

They made their trek in March, when the snows of winter would not be heavy upon the mountains of mist. The nearest mountain, though, Celebdil, still provided a daunting challenge. The pass was hard to find, and those who found it were often not met with safety and peace on their way across the mountains.

At the foot of the mountain, their host came to a halt. The leaders and their servants looked upon the three white-headed mountains before them.

"Have any of you ever crossed the Pass of Caradhras?" Elendil asked.

"I lived in Lindon, not Rhovanion," Gil-galad said.

"I as well." Cirdan added.

"I came to the North by sea." Isildur said.

"If I may speak, my lord," Elrond said to Gil-galad. "When the Shadow fell upon Eregion, some of my people moved into the east, over the mountains. Noldor they are, not like the Silvan of Greenwood. We knew of some of the paths into the mountains."

"Tell us, then." Gil-galad nodded.

"They are small," he said. "Very small, about two or three abreast can walk safely. We may need to dismount and lead our horses over by foot. Although..."

"Speak up, man!" Elendil insisted.

"I have not been beyond Celebdil, the western-most of the three mountains that stand before us. I know not what lies between that and the pass beyond."

Gil-galad rode up front, and held out his right hand in a token of peace and parley in the direction of the red-horns of Caradhras.

"_Losto, Caradhras!_" he shouted. "_Sedho! Hodo! Nuitho i'ruith!_"

At once, it seemed, the wind began to die down a little.

"There," Gil-galad said to his comrades. "I've told the mountain to hold its wrath. We should be safe."

"Should be?" Elendil queried.

"The will of the mountain is hard to discern," Gil-galad said. "For now, though, we might have safe passage and should take advantage of this quickly."

"I agree." Isildur said.

"I'm not so sure," Elendil stated. "If the mountain sets its course against us while we are encumbered in its midst, there will be much loss of life."

"It's a risk we must take," Cirdan said. "Sauron cannot see all things at once, not yet. If we cross at the River Angren, we will surely be open to his gaze. No, we must move across the mountains to Lothlorien, with the Calentaur as coverage until we come to the Falls of Rauros. At that time we will be ready to face him in open combat, for our forces shall be grown to their fullest strength."

Elendil sighed, still unsure about putting his men in danger.

* * *

><p>The snow upon the heights of the mountains was slim, only three to six inches and a whole foot in some of the deeper drifts. Their progress was slow, for they only went in double-file lines due to the narrow path on which they trod. It was very narrow and treacherous: a single stony lane cut into the side of a mountain with an endless drop on the right-hand side. Those who led the companies of the Alliance host held torches in their hands to provide light. Warmth was provided by the fur-lined cloaks and hoods the Dunedain wore over, or instead of, their armor. Only the Elves, it seemed, were unharmed by the weather.<p>

The path they took wound up and around the side of the mountain around which it passed, Celebdil the Silver, and came to a point where it promptly ended. A wide stone bridge spanned the gap between this mountain and the red slopes of Caradhras. Here the host came to a halt, for standing before them were several short figures wrapped in heavy fur cloaks and hoods down over their heads. Some wore helmets and armor openly, while others had visors of iron over their helmets that covered their faces and most of their beards. They were armed with axes, hammers and some had short bows ready to release on their unsuspecting enemies.

"Halt!" one of the short ones shouted out.

"We come in peace!" Isildur replied. "We are on our way across the mountain, going to war with the Great Enemy in the East."

At this, the first Dwarf stepped forward toward Isildur.

"Are you the one who sent emissaries to my lord but a year and a half ago?" he asked.

"I am the lord Isildur," he returned. "Son of Elendil, prince of Minas Ithil and second-in-command of the Army of the Alliance."

"Forin, at your service!" the Dwarf said, bowing so low that his black beard brushed against the snow as he came down. "Come, our King has been expecting you."

Isildur told Ohtar to send word to the leaders of the other companies to assemble here, where they would then meet with the Dwarf-King. It took a few hours for the orders to reach down to the farthest ends of command, but at last Elendil, Gil-galad and Cirdan rode to the front of the host, where Isildur and Forin stood.

"Elves!" one of the dwarves exclaimed. "_Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!_" He then spat in the direction of Gil-galad and Cirdan. Elrond, who stood at Gil-galad's side, drew out his sword.

"_Datho, Elrond!_" Gil-galad returned.

Elrond simply stared the dwarf down as he placed his sword back in its scabbard. With nothing more than the angry glances from the Dwarves, the Elf-lords joined Elendil, Isildur and Forin.

"So, these _elves_ are your allies?" Forin indicated, waving his hand at Gil-galad and Cirdan.

Gil-galad spoke in Sindarin, though his tone was heavy with annoyance at this Naugrim and his 'arrogance'.

"We have labored long and hard against the armies of Mordor," Elrond interpreted in the Westron tongue: no non-Dwarf could speak Khuzdul. "If any Free race of Middle-Earth has a right to join in the Dunedain's war against Sauron, it is the Eldar."

Forin grunted, turned around and muttered to his Dwarven companions in Khuzdul, then turned back to Isildur and Elendil, addressing them directly.

"I am just a captain of the guard," he said. "And these high matters are not my place. I shall take you to the King."

* * *

><p>They crossed the Bridge, the Dwarves leading the commanders of the host and their servants. Ohtar was, as usual, at Isildur's side, taking in all that he saw. On the other side of the bridge, the snow was even greater and the wind harsher. They were upon the flanks of mighty Caradhras.<p>

The path led around the side of the mountain to a wide platform cut into the side of the mountain. Here the Dwarves gathered their companions, and Forin addressed Isildur and Elendil.

"We are come," he said. "To the upper entrance of our kingdom, Khazad-dum. I have sent one ahead through the other passages to speak with the King. He will meet us over there, when he comes." He pointed to the side of the mountain, where a blank, featureless wall stood, red and covered in snow.

"A stone wall?" Ohtar asked aloud.

"Ah, that's where you're wrong, laddie!" the Dwarf nodded. "It is a Dwarf-gate, similar to the West-Gate of Hollin. They're not meant to be seen save at specific times or places, and some require keys and passwords. But when they are shut, they are invisible to the eyes of all." He laughed. "Even the eyes of Elves!"

"If there _is_ a door," Isildur said. "Why can we not go through it now?"

"This door is secret, Moon-Friend," Forin said. "At least, it was. But there are some, yet, who are our bitter enemies, even worse than the Elves, who wish to know the ways into our Kingdom. It it against _them_ that we..."

Just then, the sound of scuffling and hideous orc-cries resounded all over the mountains.

"Ai-oi!" Forin shouted. "Ambush!"

Elendil drew out Narsil with a cry, which burned like a five-foot long fire-brand. Aiglos shone with a cold light as Gil-galad leveled it for battle, and the swords of Cirdan and Elrond glowed bluish-white around the edges. Forin and his Dwarves took out their weapons, forming a tight perimeter around the commanders. Around them, the hills, ledges and cliffs of the mountain were now swimming with short, squat figures clad in rusty black armor, shrieking and crying.

Suddenly...

"Oi!" a hideous orc-voice cried out from among the goblin-horde. A tall, spindly-looking goblin with huge red eyes that squinted, even with the sun covered by the clouds from Fanuidhol. His armor and clothing were crude, typical of this wicked lesser kin of the orc-race.

"Crawl back to your maggot-holes, you orc rabble!" Forin growled.

"Hold your tongue, long-beard," the lead goblin growled. "Or I'll cut it out and eat it!" Hideous jeering and mocking laughter rose from the others in the goblin's company.

"Bring your pretty face to my hammer," Forin returned. "And we'll see who loses their tongue!"

"Stay, Master Dwarf!" Elendil said. He then turned to the goblin, fiery blade pointed at the foul creature. "Why should we trust you? Are not your kin in league with Mordor, our mortal enemy?"

The goblin jumped off the side of the mountain and stood before Elendil. Tiny he was, at four nine, compared to Elendil's impressive height - a single inch shy of eight feet. To those around, they saw in this tiny goblin a creature even less than a brigand of the hills, a nothing beneath even a serf. In Elendil they saw a great lord, fearful in battle and wise in victory.

"We in the North don't bow down to Lugburz," the goblin bit back. "Never 'ave, not since the Great War of Wrath, when the Dark Lord was defeated."

"How do you know these things, goblin?" Elendil asked. "Has it not been almost an age since the War of Wrath?"

"We're not like you, pale-skins! We don't rule by banners and titles and sons: we rule by the blade! Whoever's strongest, fastest, smartest, and can pry the kingship from the cold dead hands of the last one, that's who's worthy to rule us. That would be me!"

"You lead these orcs?" Isildur asked.

"Ar," the goblin nodded in agreement.

"Then what have you to do with us?" Elendil asked.

"I've sent out me spies when we saw you passin' through Elf-lands below, filled with hollies and all. Those with sharp ears and right wits 'oo told me what you were up to, they didn't end up like this!" He growled something to one of his other goblins, and sixteen goblin heads, already rotting, were thrown into the snow at Elendil's feet. They smelled hideous, and Ohtar was hard-pressed to keep from retching out loud.

"So what does this mean?" Elendil, unperturbed by the hideous stench, repeated.

"I know what you're up to," the goblin-king said. "You're off to the south with your lads, off to fight Lugburz."

"Don't listen to it, my lord!" Gil-galad said. "Ever cruel treachery is at the heart of the orcs."

"We don't like Lugburz anymore than you do, elf!" the goblin growled. "If 'e ain't licked, the North won't be safe, and you know what they do to my lads down there? Slavery! Well, I won't be nobody's _snaga_! D'you 'ear?" He spat at the heads, then kicked them off into the ravine.

"So if you know what's good for ye," the goblin sneered. "You'd be gettin' on your way double-quick, before I change me mind!"

Suddenly, another roar was heard and cries of _Khazad Ai-menu!_ The goblins turned tail and ran, scurrying back to whatever dark caverns they inhabited. Their rescuers were Dwarves, clad in heavy armor. At their head was a tall Dwarf, with a great blue-grey beard. A crown he wore with a single star of _mithril_ set upon the crown. In its shine some of the ancient glory of Kheled-zaram and the stars that shone upon its dark mere.

"Hail, King of the Long-beards!" Elendil said, raising his sword up in a token of friendship.

"Hail, High King of the North!" Durin IV rose his ax in return. "I received a messenger from Forin's company, telling me that lords of the West had united against the Shadow of the East." Durin then walked toward Elendil, who bowed before the Dwarf-lord.

"Let me see your sword." he requested.

At this, Isildur and Ohtar gripped the hilts of their own swords.

"It is not permitted for any, save for me and my sons, to touch the blade of Narsil," Elendil replied. "Death will come to any who draws it from its sheath save for its rightful owner."

"Thus said Telchar of Nogrod," Durin laughed. "One of the greatest weapon-smithies of the Dwarves." At this, all of the Dwarves removed their hoods and helmets and bowed their heads in grim silence: even Durin removed his starry crown.

"Aye," Durin said. "Men might grow few in number, but the Dwarves will never forget the greatest gift we ever gave to the Men of the Sea. I only wish to look upon it, to remember Telchar the Mighty and the works of our fathers of old."

At this, Elendil knelt down and laid the sword in his hands. Durin walked forward and examined the blade, his hands daring not to touch the naked blade of fire. Whether by some enchantment of old, or whether Narsil knew who its owner was, the flames did not burn Elendil's hand, but warmed it against the biting cold.

"A fine weapon that is," Durin said. "May its flame never be extinguished."

"My thanks to you, Durin," Elendil said, returning Narsil to its sheath. "May your halls always be filled with true-silver and gold pour from wherever you lay your hands."

Durin smiled. He then turned to all those assembled and spoke to them all as one.

"For those who know not," he said. "Narsil was forged by Telchar the Mighty in the Elder Days. After the War of Wrath, the Children of Men were given their island home in the sea. As a token of everlasting friendship between the Mountain and the Kings of Men, this sword..." He indicated to Narsil. "...was given to the first King of Men!"

Dwarf and Dundedain voices cheered, but Durin was not finished.

"I will honor that allegiance," he said. "I will go up from this place and fight the Enemy of all Free Folk. Who shall go with your King to bring down the Dark Lord?"

Loud cries of _Baruk Khazad!_ and _Baruk Durin!_ resounded from the Dwarf-company.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: How do you like that one?)<strong>

**(New chapter will be up as soon as possible, so don't worry. And Merry Yule [I know that's Nordic, but that's also the winter holiday according to the Shire calendar].)**


	10. The Muster of Middleearth

**(AN: Kind of rushed, but we need to get to the action and we're _so_ freaking close!)**

**(A certain someone will appear in this story, someone important to the fate of Middle-earth. And though her mother shall not, her influence will definitely be there. Keep on the look-out, it's also the seed for another story I'm thinking about, called _Elrond's Grief_.)**

* * *

><p><strong>The Muster of Middle-earth<strong>

_3434 S.A._

_The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The year 3434 of the Second Age of this World._

_We crossed the Pass of Caradhras and gained the allegiance of Durin and his folk. However, we were most surprised when, at our coming down from out of the mountains, the final count of Durin's folk who had joined us numbered only three hundred. The Dunedain number thirty thousand and our Elven comrades some nine and forty thousand and seven hundred. The Lord Elendil laughed when he heard the total and asked Durin why he had brought so few to battle. The Dwarf-King laughed in return, stating that many were needed to hold off the advance of the goblins in Khazad-dum, which the Elves call Hadhodrond, and that three hundred Dwarves are more than equal to ten thousand Elves each. I have yet to see their skill in battle._

When at last the Army of the Alliance had cleared the Pass of Caradhras, they began to make their way southward. While they marched, they saw a host upon the plain before them. They were clad in armor that shone like gold, and the noise of Elven voices lifted in song, to Elbereth and Earendil, wafted towards the commanders upon the wind.

"Our friends have heeded our call!" Gil-galad cried out with gladness. "Strong are the warriors of Lothlorien, the Golden Wood."

"Many there were refugees from Eregion, my lord." Elrond added.

"Then glad you shall be," Gil-galad said gaily. "To be among your kin and brethren once more."

Elrond smiled and nodded, but it was only for a moment. "Yet it has been many years since the Shadow fell on Eregion, and the people of Lorien might be utterly changed beyond our recognition."

"We shall soon see." Cirdan nodded pensively.

Ten thousand Elven warriors from Lothlorien there were in that host, all of them with bright eyes and heavy armor. At their head rode two impressive figures, both gleaming in their silver-white armor. The one had hair as white as snow, yet was not touched with any age of sign of decay. The other was blond, and looked as powerful as Isildur.

"_Mae govannen_," the white-haired Elf-lord said, raising his hand in greeting as the Lords of the Alliance walked forward to greet him. "I am Amdir, King of Lothlorien. This..." He indicated to the warrior at his right. "...is Celeborn, commander of the Army and my dearest friend. We come to answer the call-to-arms against Sauron of Mordor."

"_Mae govannen mellon_." Celeborn said to the lords of the Dunedain.

"_Mae govannen_, Celeborn." Elendil returned.

"You are welcome to us," Gil-galad said. "This war affects all the Free Folk of Middle-earth and we must stand together or fall standing alone."

"As certainly the people of Lorien know." Amdir said.

* * *

><p>Night was closing in as the Army of the Alliance camped upon the fields of Gladden, north of Lothlorien. They would not enter that wooded realm, for their path now lay to the East. In the camp of the Dunedain, Ohtar was removing his lord's armor.<p>

"It will need to be polished, before we enter battle," Isildur said. "It might seem vain, but dust and filth can destroy armor as any blade, though its work is longer and much slower."

"Yes, my lord." Ohtar nodded. He opened his sack and began rummaging through his things, then cursed aloud.

"What is it?" Isildur asked.

"The polish has been spent," he returned.

"See if our allies have any they might spare," Isildur said.

"My lord!" Ohtar nodded crisply, then left the tent. Outside, he passed by the tents of many Dunedain warriors, some around their camp-fires, chatting away and sharing old stories, or sitting in silence, reminiscing on what they might have lost.

The hide tents of the Dunedain were then replaced by the gray-golden tents of the Eldar. They also were quite busy: some were at the smithies, sharpening their swords, others polished armor, some sang or composed poetry, several were gathering around their small lanterns, engaging in games of riddles or comparing their poems.

"Dunadan!" Ohtar turned and saw Nenwe rising from one such group. She was still clad in her armor, her bow across her back, but a small harp was in her hand.

"Nenwe?"

"You used my right name!" she smiled. "What brings you to our tents?"

"I'm looking for armor polish," he said. "For-For my lord's breastplate."

"Come with me," she said. "The supply tents are over here, by the healers' tents."

"Oh, just point me the way." Ohtar returned. "I don't need to be led there."

"I'm going that way myself," she said. "I will accompany you."

"Do I have a choice?" he laughed.

"Never!" she returned.

They made their way through the tents of the Eldar, arriving at their supply tents. All great hosts kept with them a caravan of supplies needed on their march: food, clothing, raw materials, and people to aid the army (the Dwarf supply caravan also had miners, tunnelers and those skilled in crafting engines of war for the pulling down of great castles). No army could survive for long without such support. Near these tents were the tents of the healers, where Elven healers would bind the wounds of those who had taken hurt in battle.

"Do you smell that?" Nenwe queried as they walked past the healers' tents.

"Athelas," he said. "Our healers have been sharing with yours?"

"Certainly," she nodded. "Although, we don't need athelas to..." She suddenly halted, and held out her hand to stop Ohtar.

"What?" She shushed him. "What is it?" he whispered.

"Over there!" She pointed at the tents of the healers. There was General Celeborn, speaking with an elf-maid with golden hair, wearing the robes of a healer. He did not seem happy.

"You should not be here," Celeborn said, speaking to the Elf-maid in their native tongue.

"_Adar..._" she returned.

"We have enough healers here as it is," Celeborn returned. "I cannot risk losing you, my child."

"I'm three thousand years old, adar!" the young woman rebelliously replied.

"My child, please!" Celeborn insisted. "War is a foul business. The Enemy will not favor you because you are a woman. I..." Just then, he paused, a vacant look in his eyes. It lasted briefly, and then he turned back to his daughter.

"What have you seen, adar?" she asked.

"You must go home," he said. "At once. Go now!"

"I want to fight!" she pleaded. "Please, Mother said I could go if it was my wish."

"I have..." Celeborn said. "I have seen..." His face looked saddened, yet wiser for whatever sadness he had foreseen.

"What?"

"Much sorrow will come if you go to war," he said. "Your destiny is not to wield a blade, daughter. It is imperative that you return to Lothlorien at once!"

She lowered her head, and he raised it back up with a hand beneath his chin.

"The fate of all races mortal and immortal rest with you, my dear." he said. "I cannot afford to lose you."

Celeborn walked off, leaving his daughter standing there, quite bewildered by what he had said. Ohtar and Nenwe looked on, as if seeing something they were forbidden to be viewing.

"What was that about?" Ohtar whispered to Nenwe.

"It's not polite to eavesdrop, you know!"

They turned, and saw Elrond standing there, his armor in his hands.

"My lord!" Nenwe bowed.

"Please," he shook his head. "I am but a servant, you do not bow to me."

"Herald, right?" Ohtar said.

Elrond nodded.

"What brings you away from Gil-galad's tent?"

"My armor is in need of polishing," he said.

"But you need some from the stores." Ohtar finished. Elrond nodded silently again, but they saw that his gaze was not upon them. The Elf-maid, they saw, was weeping.

Elrond walked over to her side and began whispering things to her in the Elf-tongue.

"What are they saying?" Ohtar asked.

"It's none of our business," Nenwe knowingly said, a smile on her face. "Come on, let's find you that polish."

* * *

><p>The great host continued its march south-eastward. They came to the banks of Anduin, the Great River. There were no fords close at hand, and no boats they could make that could carry them all. At the front of the host, where Isildur rode with the rest of the lords (Durin in a chariot pulled by two swift ponies), Gil-galad looked to the south, towards the golden haze that rose over the land of Lothlorien.<p>

At once, the River parted down the middle, with one end growing fat with the flow of the waters restrained and the rest growing dry as the river ceased its flow. Once again, the host could march.

_The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The year 3434 of the Second Age of this World._

_Three days ago, the River Anduin parted for our host. We thought that the power of Gil-galad had been at hand, but he said that it was not his doing. Our host now marches south, upon the eastern bank of the River. We are now in the lands of the Enemy._

The host stood upon a high cliff that offered a wide view of the lands beyond. To the east, the lands that had once been forests, the southern end of Calentaur the Great, were now brown and barren. Many trees they passed that were burned, or cut down and left there to rot. To the west, the green Wold of Calenardhon stretched away longingly. Directly before them, in the east, they saw the River pass by their cliff, with another tall cliff on the western shore. It tarried on until it came to a great reservoir, where the River went plunging down a cliff and out of sight. At the head of this waterfall, there was an isle of rock in the midst. Upon the western shore there was a green lawn and a hill with a tower upon it: on the eastern shore there also was a tower upon a hill.

"This canyon," Isildur said. "Marks the beginning of the realm of Gondor." He sighed.

"What's wrong, my lord?" Ohtar queried.

"Anarion has not returned to the Stones for many long months," Isildur said. "I fear something terrible has happened."

"The realm of Gondor," Ohtar said. "Would be in ruin and shadow if he were dead."

"Let us hope that day never comes!"

They heard horns upon the northern borders of their camp. They both ran to the front, and when they arrived, found another host ready for battle standing before them: a host of Elves.

"My son!" Elendil greeted. "You're late. The Lord of Greenwood has arrived to join our alliance. They bring five thousand strong."

"That is wonderful news!" Isildur smiled. Though it was rather small, compared to the multitudes they already had.

As they spoke, an Elf appeared. He was clad in armor, with clothing of green and brown beneath. Fair hair he had, and his eyes were green like the eaves of the Forest.

"A warrior of the Silvan race of Greenwood," Isildur greeted. "I hear your people are the finest bowmen in all of Middle-earth."

"So that is," the fair Elf said. "But I am no mere warrior. I am Thranduil, son of Oropher, and prince of Calentaur."

"And I am no mere Dunedain," Isildur returned good-naturedly.

"The Lord Elendil told me of you," Thranduil said. "They say you are a great lord of Men: gracious and generous."

"I'm flattered," Isildur blushed.

"It is well deserved!" Ohtar interjected. "My lord is the greatest lord of Men the realm of Gondor has known."

"Stay, servant!" Thranduil returned. "You love your master, that is certain."

Ohtar remained silent, but then Isildur pulled him aside and whispered in his ear.

"Speak to my father concerning Anarion."

He nodded, then went off to find the High King. He was surrounded by the other kings, who were on their way to the main council tent.

"My King!" Ohtar spoke up. As Elendil turned, Ohtar bowed low before the great lord of Arnor. "My lord, your son, the Prince Isildur, asks inquiring of his brother, the lord Anarion, King of Gondor."

"Arise," Elendil said. "Tell my son, your master, this: a messenger arrived this morning. Anarion marches out from Osgiliath to join our host upon the plains below. There we will meet him."

"Thank you, my lord."

* * *

><p>The path down the cliffs was long and slow. But it would be even slower if they moved farther south, into the impassable rocky labyrinth of the Emyn Muil. Their path lead to the east, to the wide brown plains. This way they could forgo being waylaid in the mountains of the Emyn Muil and arrive within a day or two's march of the mountains of Mordor.<p>

As the host of the Alliance came to the plains, they saw another host coming up from the south. Black banners with the White Tree and the Seven Stars flew proudly as the host rode into battle. At their head was a tall lord, a helmet with wings upon it rode at the head.

Isildur kicked his horse's flanks and rode out, Ohtar at his side, toward the host of Gondor. The lord at the head of the Gondorian host rode out, and the two met upon the plain, embracing and laughing.

"Anarion!" Isildur cried out.

"Brother!" the King of Gondor said.

"When you did not appear in the Stone, I feared the worst." Isildur said.

"Father got to me first," Anarion replied. "He sent messengers, and I've brought as many as I could spare from the defense of Osgiliath: five thousand strong."

Isildur laughed. "That brings our numbers to ten times ten thousand strong!"

Anarion joined in. Ohtar smiled. He knew how his lord had missed his brother, and was glad to see him happy again.

"Oh!" Isildur spoke up. "I almost forgot. How is Meneldil?"

"He's a man now!" Anarion said proudly. "And become quite the captain of Gondor. He now leads the defense of Osgiliath: I wouldn't trust it with any other. And your sons?"

"You're a new uncle, brother!" Isildur said. "A wee one was born while we were in the north: I named him Valandil."

"Speaking of young men," Anarion stated. "I believe I have a servant of Elendur's to return to his service. I have kept him over-long in Osgiliath, since he was still a lad when you left." He shouted out, and a young man in a squire's garb and armor appeared. Ohtar smiled. The young boy of seven years of age was now almost a man.

"Permission, my lord," Ohtar said to Isildur. "And to you, as well, my King, to speak with this fine young man?"

"Granted." both Isildur and Anarion said in unison.

Ohtar rode over to the squire.

"Estelmo!" he greeted.

"Ohtar?" he returned. They dismounted and embraced.

"My boy!" Ohtar said. "Look at you! You've come back a man! And a man of Gondor at that!"

"As much as this joyous reunion is lovely," Anarion said. "I need you both back on your horses. We have no time to waste!"

"Why? What has happened?" Isildur asked.

"I fear we come with ill tidings," Anarion said. "As we marched past the entrance to the Valley of Udun, we saw a great host marching out: orcs, Men, trolls, all of the servants of the Enemy. He has gotten wind of your army and already strikes out to attack."

Isildur was silent for a moment, and Ohtar feared what might happen. So far their march had relied on secrecy, but now, apparently, they were in the open.

"Let them come!" he said.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Next chapter is going to be fun!)<strong>

**(Any thoughts or questions? Leave them here. I'll be more than willing to answer them)**


	11. The Battle of Dagorlad

**(AN: According to _LotrWiki_, the full number of the Alliances army was one hundred thousand Dunedain, one hundred thousand Eldar and fifty thousand Dwarves. I don't know where they got that number from, maybe from Christopher Tolkien. It also says that the Alliance army was ten times ten thousand strong - that is one hundred thousand exactly. So that's why my numbers are different than the 'accepted' limit.)**

**(Now comes the epic battle scene!)**

* * *

><p><strong>The Battle of Dagorlad<strong>

_3434 S.A._

The last war-council was held in a makeshift tent erected upon the brown plains east of the Emyn Muil. Ohtar, as usual, waited upon his lord, who sat at council with Elendil of Arnor, Anarion of Gondor, Gil-galad of Lindon, Cirdan of Mithlond, Durin of Khazad-dum, Amdir of Lothlorien and Oropher of the Woodland Realm.

"The plain," Anarion said, moving his hand across the map laid out before them. "Is vast and flat for many miles. I have one thousand on horse who are ready at my lord's command."

"We won't attack by horse," Elendil said. "Not yet. We will form battle-lines across the plain, with our spear-men and swordsmen at the front. Our archers will work from behind. Your cavalry, Anarion, will be at our call should the company begin to founder. Two blasts upon the horns."

"We shouldn't over-extend ourselves," Gil-galad said. "We have enough archers that if we keep our lines under a mile, we should be able to support a revolving line of fire. After the first archer has fired, he will step back and another will take his place: this way, the Enemy must fight their way to us under a continuous hail of arrows."

"Our warriors must be at the vanguard of the assault!" Durin said. "We'll show the Enemy what Dwarves do best!"

"We should not use our engines of war," Cirdan said. "Those we will save for the siege of the Dark Tower."

All had been said. The tides of fate were now moving against them. Elendil rose up, drawing Narsil from its sheath.

"Narsil!" he said. "May you not be sheathed again, until the realm of Sauron has been destroyed!"

* * *

><p>Battle formations were on the way. Banners were moving hither and yon. Elendil and Gil-galad were placed at the center, with Durin's three hundred in front. Isildur was upon Elendil's flank and Cirdan on Gil-galad's flank. Next came the footmen of Anarion under Elendur and the warriors of Lothlorien under Amdir. Lines were starting to be drawn and Oropher's archers and those of Lindon, Eregion and Lothlorien were gathering with the longbow-men of the Dunedain.<p>

In the distance roared the thousands of horns of the hordes of orcs. Like black ants they appeared on the horizon. Evil voices were raised, crying in the Black Tongue or the hideous orcish language.

Cirdan, riding atop his white horse, rode to the front of the lines of the Army of the Alliance. To all who saw him, they saw a fire like the Flame of Anor upon his hand: and all who heard his voice felt courage in their hearts and resolve in their souls.

"Children of Eru!" he cried out in a loud voice. "Show no mercy to the slaves of Sauron, for you shall receive none!"

A loud cry rose from the throats of those gathered.

"_Tangado a chadad!_" Oropher cried out from the rear-lines.

The archers fitted their arrows into their bows, readying for the enemy pass through the two-hundred-fifty yard kill-zone.

A shriek was heard from the Enemy lines. The black sea of ants started charging across the plain.

"_Tangado haid!_" Gil-galad cried to his warriors.

"Hold your positions!" Elendil mirrored.

The lines of Dunedain, Elf and Dwarf were perfect. Phalanxes bristled with spears, Elven blades gleamed blue, sensing the kills of come. Shields were raised: the White Tree and the Seven Stars, the Two Trees of Aman and the Crown of Durin.

Against them the unruly, disordered hordes of the Enemy rode. Orcs armed with whatever they could grab, some bearing shields with the crude markings of the Red Eye. With them came a dark shadow, for behind them marches the troll-folk, bearing blunt weapons and stones. What order could be found were among the lines of Moredain or the Easterlings of Rhun.

Five hundred yards away they were now. Hands flexed upon their weapons, eyed blinked, trying to maintain a steady target on the oncoming enemy. At his lord's side, Ohtar had his sword ready. His bow was not needful here, for he would be going right into the front with Isildur, sword in hand and shield upon his arm.

Four hundred and fifty. Four hundred. Now three hundred, five and seventy. Now three hundred and ten. Two hundred three and fifty.

"_Hado i philinn!_" Oropher gave the cry.

"Fire!" Anarion repeated.

A sea of arrows came whistling over the heads of the Alliance soldiers. The first line pulled back, bringing up the next wave. Nenwe deftly fitted the arrow upon the string of horse-hair, then bent her yew bow back to its full length. Her keen eyes narrowed on a hideous orc-mongrel with a helmet and shield with the red eye. A poisoned scimitar was in its gloved hands. She almost smiled, thinking that she could pierce the thin visor of that fiend before it could use its blade on the soldiers.

"Again! Again!" Anarion urged the Dunedain.

"_Leithio!_" cried Thranduil to the second line.

Swiftly, Nenwe exhaled then released the arrow. Her orc-fiend fell backward, an arrow sticking through the space of its visor. Its body now joined the hundreds that were now piling up upon the fields.

The thousands upon thousands of orcs were not halted by the sea of arrows that now blocked out the sun as it rained down upon them. All the better, for they hated the light of Anor. They were now within one hundred and fifty yards. Some of their lines started taking up their short-bows and firing off at the Army of the West.

"Shields up!" Isildur cried.

"_Dartho!_" Gil-galad shouted.

Shields rose up along the lines of the Alliance, and the crude arrows of the orcs did not get through.

"I think that's your cue, Durin!" Elendil shouted to Durin. The Dwarf-King laughed, then picked up his mighty ax.

"_Baruk Khazad!_" he shouted. Three hundred Dwarven voices were lifted up in the same chant. Durin then pointed his ax at the on-coming orcs.

"_Khazad Ai-menu!_" he roared. The mass of Durin's folk charged forth, their tall shields ready to drive a wedge through the charging enemy. From behind his four-foot tall tower shield, Forin's breath roared like a bellows, his hammer restless in his other hand. Too long it had beaten against the iron of the anvil in his smithy.

Now it would beat upon the skulls of orcs.

The Dwarves clashed with the orcs. Howls of pain came from the enemy as they Dwarves threw the first line over on their shields. Axes came down upon orc necks, heavy boots kicked and stamped on the heads of those who had fallen. Shields were brought up again, keeping the orcs from gaining a foot-hold. Forin struck a fat, ugly orc on the head with his hammer, the sickening crunch of the shattering skull barely audible over the din of battle.

But the Enemy was vast. Orcs were now pouring around the company of Durin, some ignoring them all-together as they came for the Alliance's main force, ready to tear the heads off those archers.

"Swords at the ready!" Isildur shouted. Ohtar gripped his sword tighter in his hand. Now it was his turn, to fight at his lord's side against the horde's of Mordor.

The first wave was now upon them. Elvish blades swung into action all along Gil-galad's line. Aiglos gleamed white as it thrust into the nearest enemy with the Mithlond phalanxes. Elendil's men were now beset. With a cry of "Narsil!" the High King of Arnor struck out, his sword a Flame of the West that the Shadow of Mordor could not extinguish. Ohtar now saw the enemy within ten yards of Isildur's company.

"Come for us, scum of Mordor!" Isildur shouted. His men, inspired by their lord's bravery, banged their swords upon their shields. They were now within striking range.

An orc rushed at the lines. In one swift move, Ohtar had hacked off its arm, sending it sprawling to the ground. The man to his right broke its neck with his shield, bringing it down like an ax-blade. Another took his place, this one armed with a blunt weapon. Up went his shield, and his arm shuddered as the blow jarred him, but kept him intact. With his other arm, he drove the blade of his sword into the neck of the orc, unable to counter after the heavy swing.

He turned to his left, and there stood Isildur. He needed no shield: his sword he swung with two hands, and none could stand before him. Ohtar ran to his lord's side and took his back, defending him with his shield and hacking off all others. He nudged Isildur on the back, and suddenly his lord appeared, sword ready to hack someone's head off. He smiled and chuckled lightly when he saw who it was who had bumped into him.

"Behind you, milord!" Ohtar shouted. Taking advantage, an orc with an ax was shrieking loudly, coming to stab Isildur in the back. Ohtar leveled his sword parallel to the earth, impaling the beast on his blade.

"Thank you!" Isildur returned.

"Think nothing of it, milord!"

In the forefront of the battle, Forin and Durin's folk were wading through a sea of enemies. But by now, even fear of their whip-masters was less and less threatening compared to the fury of the Dwarves: for no orc could withstand their rage. Forin struck a particularly ugly orc with the pommel of his hammer.

Suddenly, a horn was sounded and the orcs started to pull back. Dwarves, drunk with battle-lust, were roaring after their enemies, wagging their tongues at them, or pounding their hammers and axes upon their shields. Forin knelt down beside Durin, who was staring out at the darkness before them.

"That was too easy," the Dwarf-King said. "The Enemy only meant to test our strength with this blow. He will strike again, and it will be much harder."

"We'll be ready for them," Forin growled.

* * *

><p><em>The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The year 3434 of the Second Age of this World.<em>

_For three days we have met the Enemy upon the fields of battle. Though we had the mastery in the first foray and suffered no losses, the second one saw the loss of ninety: five and seventy Dunedain, four and twenty Eldar and one of Durin's folk. He must have slain almost fifty before the orcs tore him to pieces, the bastards! He would not go down easily. Two hundred have taken injury, some were struck by the poisoned arrows of the orc-archers. The healers of the Elves have been very busy.  
><em>

_The second day, the orcs marched out their stronger breed. These black Uruks are almost a match for the warriors of the Dwarves, and twice Anarion had to ride out to break their ranks to protect the Dwarves. __But we beat them back, and our ninety are nothing to the piled bodies of orcs that litter the fields. As for this writer, he hopes that we are victorious soon. The rotting orcs bring a foul stench the pollutes the land and sickens our men._

_The third day, the wicked men charged into battle. Fighting the Moredain was the most disheartening part of the battle to date. When we cut down the orcs, we were doing a right thing. The orcs hate all that is green and good in this world, they destroy simply because it is in their way. But the Moredain were our brothers once, and they believe in their cause with as much fervor as we. When we slaughtered the orcs, their death rattles filled us with disgust for their craven, corrupted folk. As the Moredain fall, we hear their last cries, their screams, their dying agony, we see their misguided valor as they fight against our brothers. The brown fields of battle are now stained with the blood of Men. Two hundred dead._

The horn was sounded. Time to battle. Ohtar rose and walked out at once to the supply tents. A reservoir had been built, where those of the caravan brought clean, fresh water from the Anduin. The Elves inspected it first, and then proclaimed it fit to use. Ohtar took a bucket of it and brought it over to the lord's tent. He filled a copper basin with the water and brought it to his lord. Isildur washed himself and Ohtar then gave him his clothes, which he himself girt about his loins. While he did so, Ohtar got himself together.

Now came the armor. As the servant, Ohtar would armor Isildur first then he would prepare himself. First, on top of Isildur's clothes, went a jerkin of leather and gloves over his hands. Then there was a shirt of steel-rings that went over this. The armor plates came on next: the breastplate, the shoulder-pads, the fauld, the pauldrons, the iron gloves, vambraces and greaves upon his shins. Next a belt was girt about the waist, with the scabbard tied by a leather strap.

As Ohtar was getting himself dressed, he walked out of the tent and saw Isildur waiting for him.

"Ready for battle?" he asked.

"For you, my lord," Ohtar said. "I am always ready."

In the south, against the shadow of the Mountains of Mordor, a great shadow was now gathering over the field of battle.

"Quickly!" Isildur insisted. "Bring me my longsword! Up with the banner!"

"At once!" Ohtar ran back to the tent and presented Isildur's blade before him. With him was the banner that rose up, red field with the Tree, the Stars and the Moon, to challenge the darkness of the Enemy.

* * *

><p>Battle-lines were drawn up again. By now the darkness was over-shadowing the front-lines. The Elves, who knew the darkness of the Elder Days, feared not this broil of fume from the Amon Amarth: the Mountain of Orodruin. But they knew what it would bring. With the sun blotted, the orcs would move faster and strike with a ferocity they had not yet seen. But also, that would bring other things.<p>

Trolls.

The bellowing of the hideous giants could be heard on the plain from as far as the Alliance front-lines. The sunlight would not stop them this time, nor would their force be enough to send them running in fear.

"Remember," Oropher said to the Men and Elven archers. "Aim for the trolls. They will reek havoc among our footmen if they are allowed to close the distance."

Nenwe stood with the archers. After each foray, as the orcs were retreating, they had been allowed to recover their arrows that were unhurt. She now readied one in her bow, waiting for the moment to strike.

But the hordes of orcs did not charge as before. In fact, now they were marching in rank and file. Behind them bellowed the trolls, aching to be let loose. But the darkness was growing deeper, and in the heart of Ohtar, he began to despair. What new devilry had the Dark Tower cooked up and was now throwing their way?

Ear-splitting screeches filled the air.

"_Dartho!_" Cirdan shouted out. "Heed not the carrion-cries of the Enemy! You are valiant warriors, who have endured so much already. Shall you run back at mere shrieking? Stand firm, do not give into fear!"

Everywhere he went, the shadow departed. But when he was gone, it returned again in full force. Now the Enemy was within sight, and they could see what was making the noise. At the head of the orc-host marched a cadre of mounted knights, all of them in black armor. A fierce cold erupted from where they stood.

Three times the horn of Gil-galad's company winded. The riders of Anarion rode out to meet the black knights, but as they came close to them, a madness fell upon the horses. They threw their riders from off their backs and ran in fright. Only Anarion, who could master man and beast from fear, kept his horse from fleeing. His riders were now scattered, and those who had fallen groveled on the ground in fear.

Parental instinct took over. Elendil lifted Narsil high into the dark sky, the flame shining for all to see, and cried for a charge. Isildur joined in with him, and two companies of Men now marched to the succor of Anarion. But as they approached the black host, they too quivered in fear. To Anarion's side only Isildur and Elendil came. Elendil now stood between his son and the black knights, Narsil gleaming with fire at them. They shrieked in their icy cold voices, but they did not charge.

"Elf-friend!" the tallest of the black knights hissed. He brought his horse forward, and Elendil could now see him. A high and lofty helm he wore, shaped like a crown of iron, yet no face gleaned from within the visor.

"You have failed," hissed the Lord of the Nazgul. "The end has come for the West!"

A sword in hand and a mace in the other, he who had once been first of the King's Men, castellan of Tar-Atanamir the Unwilling, sorcerer and chief adviser, attacked the High King of Arnor, Commander-in-Chief of the Faithful. But though the Black Breath hung heavily about the form of the Lord of the Nazgul, the Flame of the West was not extinguished. Elendil fought with a savage bravery, ready to give his very life for his son.

But the others were not as noble as they had once been, if ever. One of them, the ancient king of Rhun whose name was Khamul before he fell into darkness at the command of his lord and god Sauron, drew a sword and attacked Elendil from behind. Isildur, standing apart, saw the approach of the Black Easterling, and so engaged him.

Over their heads, hails upon hails of arrows rained at the trolls and orcs behind the Nazgul. Keen Elven eyes kept their targets in sight, and steady hands gripped their bows: no arrow struck their allies on the front.

But Anarion's unit still wavered under the assault of the Nazgul. With the captains of their foe's host in their hand, the Enemy then pressed his advantage under the cover of darkness. Trolls and orcs charged at the lines of the main army _en masse_. Arrows still rained upon them from the Elven lines, but they were so vast that the front-lines were soon in a melee fray with the orcs.

The companies scattered as the trolls came forward, but the Elves kept them under a shower of arrows. Some fell, others went reeling into the lines of both friend and foe: the dead and wounded began to rise in number as they flailed in their last-ditch survival effort.

In the front, Ohtar quailed beneath the shadow. It was all around, and hope seemed as frail and distant as Angrenost, or the white-walls of Minas Ithil, now ruined and filled with the stench of orcs.

Suddenly, the warmth of the sun came back into his being. A hand was on his shoulder, a hand that held the flame of Anor. Looking up, he saw Cirdan with a reassuring smile upon his face.

"Take heart, squire," the Elf-lord said. "There are few powers that can openly challenge the Ulaer in combat, and a lord of the Dunedain is definitely one of them. Your master will not fall."

Simple though those words were, a new fire was kindled in Ohtar's heart. He rose to his feet, broke ranks and charged to the defense of Isildur. Stand though he would, he was certain that Isildur would not stand alone against this dark foe.

But all was not lost. Gil-galad and Cirdan mastered command of the Alliance armies and charged outward to the rescue of their fellows. They joined into the fray against the hordes of the orcs, and the dark presence of the Nazgul had no affect on them.

* * *

><p>When Ohtar's eyes opened again, he found himself in the tents of the Healers. It was still dark outside, but it did not seem stifling: perhaps it was indeed night-time? As he opened his eyes, he saw an Elf-maid with fair hair. He recognized her immediately.<p>

"Thank you, my lady," he whispered.

"Your gratitude is commendable, Dunadan," she said. "But unwarranted. I am merely doing my duty."

"W-What happened?"

"You were struck during the battle," she said. "Your lord brought you into the Healers, demanding that we do all that we could to save you."

He rested his head on the pillow. This all seemed too much: a lord risking his life for his servant? It usually went the other way around - it was _expected_ to go the other way around. Why did Isildur do this?

"What is your name, milady?" Ohtar asked, as she turned, readying to leave.

"Celebrian," she whispered. "Daughter of Celeborn."

"Your father?" he returned. "The General of Amdir's forces?"

She nodded.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"The fifth of October."

Ohtar did some calculations in his mind. That would mean he had been unconscious for almost...

"Three weeks," she said. "You were under the Black Breath, the evil aura of the Ulaer."

"What?"

"I believe," she added. "It is called in the Adunaic tongue, Nazgul."

"Those black knights?" he asked.

"Chief servants of the Enemy," Celebrian began. "They were once great Kings of Men - from the far lands of the East, the sires of Waw, of Harad..." She paused. "Even of Numenor."

Ohtar's blood ran cold. He knew of the Moredain, but he did not know that so many were so close to the Enemy, and these black riders were even closer than the Moredain.

"They were..." She paused. "...deceived, corrupted and fallen at last into darkness. Now they are the Enemy's captains, slaves to his will, yet his most powerful."

A chill ran down Ohtar's body and he could feel that his forehead was damp.

"Don't fear," she smiled. "They cannot touch you here. You were spared at last from their power." She turned aside and nodded. Another figure joined them.

"_Mae govannen, Dunadan_," Elrond nodded. Ohtar sat up a little straighter at the sight of Gil-galad's herald.

"Ever our fates are entwined, my lord." he said at last.

"It is the will of the Valar," Elrond stoically replied. Celebrian then rose up and bowed lightly to Elrond and Ohtar before leaving. The Dunadan smiled as he saw Elrond looking after her.

"You fancy her?" he asked.

"What?" Elrond turned around.

"Even a blind man could see it," Ohtar replied. "You're in love with her."

"My love is for the sea," Elrond said. "And one day, I shall return...as all of my people must."

"There's no use denying it." the Man continued. "I saw the way you comforted her three weeks ago, when her father told her to go home. Come on, admit it!"

Elrond's eyes fell as he tried not to look at Ohtar as he spoke.

"It is true," he said at last. "I saw her grow into the flower of woman-hood in Eregion. Then..." he sighed. "Then the Shadow came. I led a band of refugees north to Imladris, but she was not among them."

"Have you told her about your feelings?" Ohtar asked.

"It is not probable," Elrond shook his head. "Her mother is the greatest of the Noldor, and her father a mighty lord of Lothlorien. She deserves far more than a simple guardian; nay, rather a simple herald."

"And what if it _were_ possible?"

"There are things that must come first," Elrond said. "It is the custom of my people that those who are to be joined must remain chaste from each other for at least a century. After which, there is a year or ten of betrothal before they may be united."

"A century?" exclaimed Ohtar. "By the Seven Stars, that's half of your life waiting for someone!"

"Half of _your_ life, maybe," Elrond returned. "But you forget to whom you speak."

Just then, the lord Isildur entered the tent of the Healers. He almost pushed Elrond aside and lifted Ohtar into an embrace.

"My lord!" Ohtar sighed. "This is hardly appropriate!"

"I care not!" laughed Isildur. "Gondor would be short of a great man if I let you fall."

Ohtar shook his head, growing red around the ears.

"When shall I return to the field of battle?" Ohtar asked.

"Soon," Isildur returned. "We've pushed them back, almost to the foot of the mountains. Very soon we'll be..."

There was a commotion from the camp outside. Cries and screams were erupting and loud explosions resounding, like falling rocks and lights in the dark sky. Isildur ran outside, and behind him followed Ohtar, without armor and without weapons.

Outside, all was in chaos. From afar, the Enemy was hurling balls of fire that burned with a green light. These struck the earth with great explosions, catching whatever they struck on fire. Orcs were pillaging the camp, all armed and ready for battle, with trolls leading the vanguard. The cowards of Mordor had attacked at midnight, while the Allies were resting and recovering from the day of battle.

Cirdan rode through the camp, trying to rally the troops together for a counter-attack before they were all routed. Ohtar's heart leaped as he saw the Elf riding his white horse, shouting words of courage and bravery to the allies.

Just then, a few Elves in their grey cloaks approached Isildur and Ohtar. They were not even armored, but blood stained their clothing: red blood.

"Thranduil!" Isildur greeted. "We've been ambushed!"

"Have we now?" Thranduil returned with sarcasm. "I think we already know that! Next time, tell us something we don't know! Nothing vexes me greater than a fool who proclaims what is plain and apparent to all!"

"Where have you come from?" Isildur amended.

"My lord," he paused, his anger fading into remorse. "He told us to flee. He told _me_ to flee. I would have given my life for him, but..."

"Where is Oropher?"

"He has fallen," Thranduil said morosely. "The Enemy brought trolls against us, and _moryrch_ - the black Uruks of Mordor. He was cut down even after he had been slain. And..." He shivered as he spoke, a strange thing for an Elf to do.

"What?" Isildur insisted.

"The Chief of the Ulaer came upon us," he finished. "He spoke something in a foul language, and then one of the green fire-balls landed where my lord had fallen." He looked rather shocked.

"What is it?" Ohtar asked. "Surely your host isn't completely routed. You might still survive."

"So we do," Thranduil nodded. "But now..." He sighed. "Now the command passes to me. I am now King of the Woodland Realm."

"Then save your people!" Isildur insisted. "Gather to Cirdan's banner at once!" He then turned to Ohtar.

"Get yourself a shield and sword," he ordered. "The enemy's come to kill us in our sleep!"

* * *

><p><em>The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The year 3434 of the Second Age of this World.<em>

_It has been a whole month that we have fought here upon the plains of battle before the walls of Mordor. Many have fallen. Amdir of Lothlorien was the last to fall, but he slew two hundred ere they finally brought him down. Celeborn and Thranduil now lead the hosts of Lothlorien and Calentaur respectively._

_We cannot leave these battle-plains fast enough. They have become a mass-grave of Elves and Men and Dwarves and Orcs. The evil sorcery that the Enemy rained down upon us that night has ruined these brown plains, all the Elves can sense it._

There came a day at last when the camp was on the move. The tents were coming down at last. Ohtar saddled his horse, now with Estelmo sharing his camp. As esquire to Elendur, son of Isildur, they were in the same company. Ohtar taught the lad everything he knew, both of service and of warfare. Now they were bringing down their tents. As they worked, Nenwe approached.

"Haven't seen you for weeks," Ohtar greeted. "The archers not getting enough time in the front, eh?"

"But for our arrows," she replied. "The number of dead we leave behind would be much greater."

"Always full of cheer, this Elf-lass is," Forin said, joining their company. "We've had good fortune on the field of battle. True, we have lost many."

"But our numbers are still great," Nenwe added. "And the Enemy is in flight. We will pursue them wherever they choose to run."

"But," Estelmo spoke up. "What if they run beyond yonder Black Mountains?" He pointed to the wall of Mordor.

"Then we will pursue them across yonder black mountains." Nenwe plainly returned.

"That is no small task, my friend," Ohtar said, looking up from his packing. "_One does not simply walk into Mordor._"

"But we shall, Dunadan," Nenwe replied, a smile finally erupting upon her face. "We shall."

At last, the sound of horns began to ring upon the plains of battle. Ohtar's heart rose once again, as if Cirdan walked among them. For the past month, he had endured a grueling fight upon the wide plains of battle. Now they would be on the move again.

The Battle of Dagorlad was over.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Yep, I rushed a chapter of over five thousand words [or close to that].)<strong>

**(Some tongue-in-cheek moments in this chapter [like Thranduil's statement about being 'captain obvious' a none-too-subtle jab at Peter Jackson's depiction of his son Legolas as Captain Obvious, and the whole "One Does Not Simply Walk into Mordor" thing]. But you know? The Last Alliance simply walked into Mordor!)**

**(Tell us what you think.)**

**(Stupidest thing ever - in my semi-continued story _Another World: FotR_, based on _Little__GreenFae's_ original idea of _Wicked_ cross-over with _LotR_, I misspelled Dagorlad as 'Dagorland.' I'm glad I got that right in this chapter. Do tell me if I make big errors like that - the little grammar signs, however, I'm not bothering with. It's a pain, especially when the FFN Document Editor deletes them and you have to put them back in again.)  
><strong>


	12. Siege of Barad dur

**(AN: Gonna wrap up six or so years hereabouts. Though it won't be five thousand words long, I hope.)**

**(Some of what happened in last chapter was to try and explain the origin of the Dead Marshes. Obviously some evil sorcery was at work to raise the dead shades and the water, I have it, came from the Alliance reservoirs that were fouled during the ambush.)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Siege of Barad-dur<strong>

_3434 S.A._

_The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The year 3434 of the Second Age of this World._

_We marched from the plains of Dagorlad, leaving the evil of that place behind us and all the memories. Now we stand at the mouth of the Udun Valley. Our hosts are pitched before the entrance of this dreadful place, a veritable black mouth into the Land of Shadow. Already Elendil, Anarion and Isildur are making plans to build a fence around this pass, with two towers on either side of the great hills. We will keep the creatures of Mordor from ever leaving this evil land and harassing the lands of the West._

_This writer dreads entering the Black Land of Mordor proper._

When the order at last came for the march into Mordor, it had been long time coming. Preparations had been laid, new stores of food and water had been gathered - for they were low on the one and out of the other, after the surprise attack at Dagorlad. Now the engines of warfare would be made and put to use in tearing down the one thing in their way: the Dark Tower of Mordor, the fortress of Sauron.

Into the yawning defile of Udun the armies of the Alliance passed. With tall black mountains on either side, they sojourned on. The land steadily grew worse and worse: black soil, like ash, replaced the barren browns and grays of the Dagorlad. Hideous filth vomited up from the tortured earth piled up in great mounds of slag, behind which, they feared, waited an ambush. In the hills above and around them were many holes and tunnels, perhaps teeming with thousands of orcs. Though they saw no orc as they marched further into Udun, they had the profound feeling that their entrance into Mordor had been marked.

At night the valley of Udun became even worse than in the day. Ever and anon the sound of something moving among the rocks above their heads sent every eye and ear searching blindly in the dark, yet revealed nothing. Howls of some strange orcish-wight or other nameless, faceless and invisible demon resounded, echoing all around them. The further they walked into the dark land, the easier it was to forget such simple things as water, light or a dark under stars without fear.

* * *

><p>Morning rose without sun or ray of light. A dark reek of black clouds hung eternally over the land, overshadowing all things. The Army of the Alliance would not see the sun again for nigh on six years. In the dim gray of the early twilight, they saw stretched out before them a barren wasteland: a desert of fire, ash and dust. Directly south-east rose a great mountain, whose summit reached into the dark reek of the clouds. Yet ever and anon it would belch fire that would run down along the burned sides of the rock, settling at last in twisted black pools of molten rock at its base. To the east, still some distance away, the tiny pin-prick of a tower could be seen in the distance.<p>

That plain was the plateau of Gorgoroth, and that mountain was Amon Amarth and Orodruin, the Mountain of Fire.

"Here we are," Elendil said, gazing out across the ashen plains of Gorgoroth. No sight or sound of orcs appeared upon the horizon. That was even more disconcerting than a great host of hundreds of thousands. "We're arrived in the Enemy's land."

"We must press on," Gil-galad urged. "The sooner we destroy Sauron, the sooner we can return to our homes in peace."

"I don't like this land," Anarion said, inhaling haggardly. "Even the air is foul and loathsome. I fear we might lose half our army from fatigue in this wicked land before ever we reach Barad-dur."

"Take heart," Cirdan said. "The Elves have set our purpose to the destruction of Sauron, and we shall achieve it."

"And where the hearts of Men fail," Durin proudly said. "A Dwarf will soldier on."

"We will not fail," Isildur said. "Long have my men dwelt under the shadows of these mountains, and endured the darkness of..." His eyes looked on to the south, to the passes above Minas Ithil, to Torech Ungol, where the nameless shadow dwelt.

"Even so," Anarion replied. "That only accounts for _your_ companies. Most of the Men of Gondor and Arnor have never seen Mordor: to them, it is but a shadow of fear, a rumor of terror from afar, no more powerful than a dream. Now it is come to life in the waking world, they will lose heart."

"No they won't," Cirdan added. "The Valar are with us."

* * *

><p>The host marched on, their immediate task directly before them: in the east. At the head of the Army rode Gil-galad and Elendil. All-throughout the Battle of Dagorlad, where they appeared victory was assured. Narsil rode like a light to guide them to victory, as though Earendil himself had come down incarnate in the ancient sword, and now led them onward through the dark places.<p>

Yet they marched on, though weariness and the evil of this land took its toll upon them.

The third night after they first entered Mordor, the Armies made camp in a sheltered arm of the Ephel Duath. Anarion and Isildur were busy examining this sheltered valley. Ohtar, as usual, was at his master's side.

"This is a good place," Anarion said. "Well, strategically sound is more the right word. For nothing is good here."

"The mountains behind us are high enough," Isildur said, looking back. "If any orc tries to attack us from there, they must needs grow wings or climb down the mountain wall like a..." But he halted.

"If they attack us from the front," Anarion continued. "The mountains will nullify their numbers."

"It is from the mountains that we must look for assault," Isildur said at last. "That was how Minas Ithil fell."

"My lord," Ohtar said. "How was the Enemy able to over-run us? Would not the mountains keep them out?"

"So they should have," he replied. "But I fear that those curs dug tunnels around Torech Ungol, and so were able to field large armies into the Imlad Ithil."

"Since you and the High King," Ohtar suggested. "Are making plans of building forts and watch-towers here in Mordor, I would suggest a small watch-tower on the Mordor side of the Imlad Morgul. That _thing_ watches the tunnels, but it was not enough to keep the orcs at bay. Therefore we will need some kind of fore-warning in case Minas Ithil is attacked again."

"You marvelous thing!" Isildur threw his arm around Ohtar's shoulder. "So it shall be done."

"Once we've destroyed the Enemy first," Anarion reminded. "Come, let us retire."

* * *

><p>The day was dark and mirthless once more. Even the boldest of the Eldar, who sang as they fought the hordes upon the plains of Dagorlad, were now grim-faced and silent. Fear gripped the hearts of the Dunedain, and they looked about at every shadow in fear. Every noise, even sometimes the foot-steps of their brethren, put them off their ease. Many were falling ill and the wagons that carried the sick were filling up.<p>

About mid-day, with all still dark and dreary, the sound they had been dreading for days was at last heard. Orc-horns were resounding in the hills and upon the plains before them. But more than the plains, for they could now see black walls in the distance. Beyond those walls rose a hill of earth; thither, wall upon wall, battlement upon battlement, rising to a great height above all the lands of Shadow it had created, rose the Dark Tower of Mordor, the seat of Sauron's power.

_Barad-dur_.

* * *

><p>After two days of fighting, many of the orcs that were garrisoned in the lower levels of the Dark Tower had fled in fear. The Alliance now began to set up their camps in a circle around the Dark Tower. Dwarven craftsmen got to work immediately on the weapons of siege and plans were made for the destruction of the tower of Barad-dur.<p>

It was in the command-tent that Isildur and the other leaders were gathered, making their plans.

"From what we've gathered," Celeborn said. "There is a high wall that surrounds a courtyard about the lowest level of the tower. It's circumference is at least half of a mile. Our engines must be placed within this courtyard before we begin firing at the fortress."

"There is something else, too," Thranduil showed them the map that his scouts had made. "On the western wall, there is but one passage through the walls, but it is a channel of molten rock. We have not the strength nor the power to divert the flow, if we were to be within even a few yards of this fire, it would consume us. This lake of fire goes into the courtyard and surrounds the base of the tower like a moat."

"Then we cannot attack its foundations with tunnels," Durin said. "Even so, we shall pull the Dark Tower down into the lake of fire and watch it burn!"

"There are only four ways to access the tower," Celeborn said. "Four narrow bridges span the lake of fire: if those in the Tower are able to destroy the bridges, our work will be much more difficult."

All had been said, and now they must prepare for the work of the siege.

The day wore on, with companies of armed men with raised shields crossing over the bridges to the Dark Tower. But the Tower was not empty, and ever anon flaming arrows or boulders from catapults would be launched down at the attackers or those in the wide courtyard. Many were lost on the march across the bridges.

The command head-quarters were now in a small watch-tower that stood inside the courtyard of the Dark Tower. When they first found it, there were orcs inside it but yet they could not pass through the gate, for some evil kept the orcs in and the Allies out. Only the powers of Gil-galad and Cirdan were able to break whatever dark will held in that tower. Now it was used as a command center, for it offered more protection than their tents. All the orc-filth had been moved out and a weak table had been refurbished for the purpose of the Alliance leaders.

Hither came Forin from the front-lines at the base of Barad-dur.

"Bad news, my lords!" he announced. "Our engineers made it through to the base of the Tower. We got to work, but once we tried to chip away at the foundations, our tools broke as we struck the black stone! There's some fell sorcery at work, that's for certain!"

Elendil sighed. The easiest way to destroy something was to attack its foundations. But these, it seemed, were beyond the power of mere mortals to destroy.

"Have you tried everything?" Gil-galad asked, trying not to give up so easily.

"Well," Forin stroked his beard. "There _is_ something."

"What? What is it?" Elendil queried.

"No, it's almost impossible to acquire," he shook his bearded head. "Only a handful have ever gotten it this far west, and if you even get it close to fire..."

"What is it?" Isildur echoed.

"In the lands of Rhun," Forin said. "The Easterlings create a fine powder like black sand that they use to move mountains."

"But?" Cirdan asked.

"But," Forin sighed. "It's in the hands of the Easterlings, and they are in service to Mordor."

"I'll send a detachment out to the east to find the nearest camp of the Easterlings," Isildur volunteered.

"That could take weeks, months!" Elendil rebutted. "No, our full force must be focused _here_, for here the realm of Sauron shall end."

Isildur agreed, though grudgingly. Already this seemed as though the War would be lasting longer than he had desired.

* * *

><p><em>The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by his own hand. The day, the 31st of the month of December, in the year 3440 of the Second Age of this World.<em>

_For six years we have labored toward the destruction of the Tower of Barad-dur. A fell power has been brought against us: all our siege engines are useless against the foundations of the Tower. Though why this is so, not even Cirdan or Gil-galad knows for certain. Many have taken sick, including my most trusted servant Ohtar. Yet we are ever victorious, for the Tower has suffered greatly from our siege of the upper halls and towers.  
><em>

In the tents of the healers, Ohtar found himself again. Nenwe stood there, out of armor and sporting a bloody gash on her forehead. The orcs remaining in Barad-dur took to filling the catapults upon the towers with rubble and hurling it down upon the Allies. It had been a small stone that struck her, and only her helmet turned the blow and saved her life.

"When will I be released?" Ohtar asked Celebrian, as she walked past where he lay.

"When you are healed," she stoically responded.

Ohtar rolled his eyes, then turned to Nenwe. "What do you think?"

"Hmm?" she turned away from whatever she had been doing - staring off into the darkness, perhaps, since Elves did not sleep as Men did.

"I said," he repeated. "What do you think? Do you think we can win this war?"

"I know not," she sighed. "Many have lost their lives already, some to the Enemy, others to the evil of this place."

"But if we _do_ survive," he repeated. "What then?"

"I know not concerning your people," she said. "But I know that the Noldor will not remain for long. It was the people of Eregion that brought the Shadow into the land of the Elves, and they will be blamed for Sauron's rise to power. So many good lords of the Eldar have fallen, it seemed that the world will be a less beautiful place if we survive this war."

"I was talking about you," he returned. "What will _you_ do after the War?"

She shrugged. "I know not. Perhaps I will go to Mithlond and sail into the West, where the Noldor should have stayed with the rest of our people. Maybe I will stay a while at Imladris, trying to bring back some semblance of the beauty of Gondolin."

"Looking to the past, I see," Ohtar nodded.

"The past, I fear, is all the Eldar have left for them," she said. "All our deeds have turned to vanity. The Silmarils were lost or destroyed, and nothing but grief has come from the workings of my people."

"But you can't let grief stop you from doing new things," Ohtar insisted.

Nenwe smiled. "You are kind, _Dunadan_, but it is the Gift of Men that blinds your eyes."

"The _Doom_ of Man," Ohtar returned.

"Nay, but a gift," she began. "Don't you see? The lives of Men are short, so they must have all within their life-spans, and as such, they are capable of great deeds, but lack the foresight to see that all they will do eventually fades away. Such it is with the Eldar: we live long enough to see all that we have done destroyed, come to naught and corrupted."

Silence fell between them, during which Ohtar tried to fathom what this could mean. Coming up with nothing, he decided to change the subject.

"Why is it that you did not become a healer, like the Lady Celebrian?" he asked.

"My people hold that the dealing of death," Nenwe returned. "Whether lawful or in need, diminishes the power of healing. Enough blood has been spilled by my hand to make my healing of little account, for there is little merit in prolonging a losing battle with pain and suffering."

Suddenly, there was a cry of warning from without, then screams and the roar of horses. Regardless of rules or whether he was strong enough, Ohtar got up out of his bed and walked out of the healers' tents and into the courtyard, with Nenwe following on behind. There a large amount of rocks thrown from the Dark Tower had hit a company of horsemen on their way to some business.

Ohtar's face blanched as he saw one of them lying among the stones.

"My lord!" he cried out, running immediately from the spot. "My lord!"

Through the courtyard and the scattered camps about he ran, calling out the name of Isildur. At last, exhausted, he threw himself at the feet of his lord, who stood at the foot of the watch-tower command post.

"What is it, man?" Isildur asked. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed, recovering?"

"Forgive me, my lord!" Ohtar gasped. "But you must...come with me. To the tents of the healers! Your lord's brother...the King!"

Isildur needed no other words. He leaped atop his horse, with Elendil, the concerned father, mounting up as well and riding on ahead of Ohtar, who had to run after them. All too soon, he heard a loud cry of agony from up ahead. He increased his pace and finally came back to the tents of the healers. And there, lying on the black, ashen ground of Gorgoroth, in the courtyard of Barad-dur, Isildur and Elendil had pushed aside the stones and pulled out the body that Ohtar had recognized.

It was Anarion. Isildur had his helmet in his hands: it was bent, cracked in by the falling stone. The circlet that bound the cap was undamaged, and so were the wings upon it, but the cap itself had been bashed in. Anarion's head was covered in blood.

Elendil wept silently, cradling his son in his arms. Ohtar knew his pain, for he also had lost a son. It was not the natural way of things: fathers grew old and died _before_ their sons passed on, not after. Isildur was the most visibly disturbed, for he had lost his brother, he who had been his comrade-in-arms in all things. He who had fought with him on the field of Dagorlad, who had driven the hosts of Mordor before him on many occasions. But worse than this, both Ohtar and Isildur knew, was that Meneldil, heir-apparent of the Throne of Gondor safe in Osgiliath, would never see his father again.

* * *

><p><em>The journal of Isildur, prince of Minas Ithil, and account of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by his own hand. The day, the 1st of the month of January, in the year 3441 of the Second Age of this World.<em>

_Anarion is dead. He fell when a stone was thrown from Barad-dur and struck his helmet. All of the Dunedain weep for him. I have instructed my squire to keep his helmet, which I shall take back to Meneldil as proof of his father's valor. Furthermore, I have left instruction that the circlet of wings be hammered out of the helmet and shall be the crown of the Kingdom of Gondor forevermore. At a convenient time, he shall be..._

"My lord!" Ohtar's words interrupted Isildur from his writing.

"What is it?" he returned.

"Your pardon, my lord!" Ohtar bowed. "But the High King requests your presence at the front of the company. Surely you've heard the horns!"

Listening, Isildur knew he could hear, in the distance, the crying of horns. He dressed in his armor, then walked off with Ohtar to the front of the camp, outside of the courtyard of Barad-dur. Many of the horses had died during the siege or taken ill from lack of feed or the evil of this land, and so those who were healthy had been sent back to Gondor. Now there were only foot-soldiers in the lines of the Alliance.

"Father!" Isildur called out. "What is it?"

"That!" Elendil pointed to the west. Rising impossibly huge was the Orodruin, belching fire and smoke into the sky. Crawling down from its summit, like a sea of black fire, were hordes of screaming orcs and other foul creatures.

"How many?" Isildur asked.

"There's no telling," Elendil shook his head.

"Then we must defend ourselves!" He turned back into the camp, with Ohtar at his side, to get the men ready for battle.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Yes, that was quite rushed, it was. Still, tell us what you think.)<br>**


	13. The Last Battle

**(AN: The reason I had Anarion's death set on December 31st was that I could have the last battle [this chapter] back-to-back, which means that the year 3441 was only a day and so long [unless, like with the Fourth Age, they waited out the rest of the year before declaring the 'new age].)**

**(I hope you can enjoy this chapter.)**

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><p><strong>The Last Battle<strong>

_3441 S.A._

All were mustered around the walls of Barad-dur. The Alliance would not lose the tower. They had come too far to fail. Even the Dwarves had been called away from their work to join the battle. All were now in array, waiting for the charge of the Enemy.

Under Isildur's banner, Ohtar stood. He was strong enough for duty, and so insisted that he be allowed to join in the battle. Yet even so, he was tired. Six years without light had taken its toll on him. He, like with the rest of the Dunedain, was weary and home-sick. The stars had failed and now only darkness awaited them.

But he had come this far, and his lord was not giving up, and Ohtar would not give up either: if he turned tail now, he would just die later. Give up now and every other fight would have been in vain. Sword in his hand, shield upon his arm and helmet upon his head, he was ready to die at Isildur's side, even here in the land of Shadow.

_Oh_, he thought, _what a tale they shall sing of us!_

Just then, the sword of Elendil rose into the sky, flaming with the light of the Sun, long forgotten by the Dunedain of the Army.

"Charge, Dunedain!" Elendil cried out. "Remember Minas Ithil! Remember Numenor! Remember the Dagorlad! Let the Enemy pay a hundredfold for every one of us they've slain!"

With swords pounding upon their shields, Isildur's company marched out to meet the Enemy. Ohtar took heart once again and followed on with as much vigor as though he had never come to this Valar-forsaken land. The Enemy was now within sight. Orcs broke upon their shields, but the valor of the Dunedain was strong. Ohtar stood his ground, shield up, sword out. Not one of the Enemy would advance beyond their lines.

Suddenly, there was another cry behind them. "_Leithio!_" they heard. Arrows thick as hail fell upon the lines of the orcs, and they fell like wheat before the scythe.

Screams suddenly rent the air. The Nazgul were about again. The valor now turned to terror. The Dunedain were starting to scatter. Just when it seemed that only Isildur would be left, a company of Teleri armed with spears joined the fray, Cirdan at the helm. The fear was driven away like a mist by a spring rain. Now they charged forward again, Isildur's host rallying once again to his banner.

Now they were attacked by an army that was not orcish. Easterlings with their heavy armor marched. These were harder to fight than the orcs, for the Men of the East could think and formed phalanxes filled with halberds. Those who got through had their limbs hacked off by their cruel axes. And should their spears be overcome, the Easterlings fought to the last man, demanding no quarter.

But they were no match for the Men of Numenor. For even in Exile, they were in their hey-day. Warriors with swords and shields worked in unison against the Easterling phalanxes. Blows were deflected, some went home and some blocked the Enemy's advance. Soon even these were giving back.

Then another small company charged head-long into the fray. This host was also clad in black armor, and black were their flowing beards. It was then that Ohtar noticed that these were Dwarves. But they were not Long-beards, for they were not friendly to the Alliance. Berserk they ran through the lines of the Alliance, killing whatever got in their way.

Behind them came the Men of Khand, if men they could be called. Like the Moredain and the Easterlings, they worshiped Sauron and held orcs to be his messengers. They fought like orcs and even killed their own brethren like the orcs and took on orcish names, yet human they were. One foul Variag attacked Ohtar, its club pounding upon the shield like a hammer upon a drum. The attack stopped, and suddenly the beast was on top of Ohtar, trying to bite into his neck, as if it were indeed an orc. An arrow stuck fast in its open mouth, and it gagged and choked on its own blood till it died. Looking back to see who had saved his life, he saw a bow raised by one Elf who was not with her company.

He smiled, thanking her silently for saving his life.

* * *

><p>On the other flank, near the pass of Sammath Naur that led into the very heart of Orodruin, Gil-galad and the Elves broke upon the main force of the orcs. Hither Nenwe joined with her unit after saving Ohtar's life mere moments ago from the vile Variags.<p>

But another force had broken upon them, an army of the Easterlings. They had been broken upon the shields of the Dunedain, but, gathered under the Shadow of the East, they were forced and threatened into charging now into the armies of the Eldar. A hideous screech pierced the ears of all gathered hereabouts, but Nenwe kept to her course.

A sudden blow struck her to the ground. Pushing herself up, she saw one of the black-clad Ulaer had come upon her. A sword was in one hand and an ax in the other. A mask there was beneath the hood, one that resembled those of the soldiers of Rhun. This was the Shadow of the East, the Black Lieutenant whose name was once Khamul.

He attacked the Elf, but she saw fast and escaped the first blow. She reached back to the sheath slung over her shoulder and drew out her sword. She and the Nazgul exchanged blows upon their swords, and only the virtue of her race, that she could at once fight in this world while outshining the creature of darkness in its own world, saved her life. For few of the Dunedain could challenge this Nazgul second only to their Black Captain.

"_Khazad Ai-menu!_" a voice cried out. The shape of Forin son of Frar appeared, swinging his mighty hammer. He struck the Nazgul, throwing the black figure to the ground. Yet, powerful though the blow was, it was not powerful enough to destroy the beast or to protect itself. It shattered in the Dwarf's hands, throwing him back upon the ground.

Whether by the valor of the Dwarf or by some command of its master, the Black Easterling departed. Nenwe walked over to Forin and brought him to his feet.

"Never before," she said. "Has my life been in the debt of a Dwarf."

"I shall be in no man's debt," Forin returned. "Especially not an Elf-lass. Ai, back to the fight! There's plenty more where that came from, without having to fight those black riders!"

She nodded, then ran back to Gil-galad's company.

* * *

><p>Hours had passed, and the Alliance was now together in one impenetrable wall of shield, sword, ax and spear. The forces of Mordor were now fighting for their very lives upon the slopes of Amon Amarth. Ever and anon streams of fire would come down, burning orc, Elf, Man and Dwarf alike. Many died as a result of the fires rather than from shaft or blade.<p>

Yet the losses of Mordor were greater and fear was in their eyes as they beheld the fury of the Lords of the West. The flame of Narsil drove off even the Nazgul, and Aiglos could not be challenged. Victory was near! Isildur's company fought with a renewed fury, as their lord sought to avenge the death of his brother at the hands of these foul creatures. Strong and hardy were the folk of Durin, and six years in the Black Land was not enough to break their spirits. Forin fought along with the others as fiercely as he had that day upon the Dagorlad when Durin's company had been the first to charge into battle.

At last, a great heat began to rise from the mountain. Fearing some convulsion from the Orodruin, the captains of the West looked thither. But no fire did they see, unless it was the one upon the Right Hand. A tall figure appeared, taller even than Elendil, yet no giant this was: nay, not even a living man. The destruction of the world could not bring down this being, greater than all of those things that now inhabited Middle-earth. Clad in black it was, and black was its lofty helmet. A mace it bore, like unto Grond the Hammer of the Underworld, that its master wielded in the Elder Days. Orcs quivered before it, the hearts of Men ran cold when they saw it, and even the Elves despaired as they looked upon this being.

Sauron the Dark Lord of Mordor.

"Begone!" Elendil spoke. "Too much innocent blood has been spilled by your hands. Leave these lands and never return, or Narsil shall be your bane!"

The Dark Lord laughed, and cruel and chilling was the sound that issued from the dark helmet. All quivered at the sound of his voice.

"It is you who have over-extended yourself, old fool!" Sauron spoke. At once, he rose his great mace and brought it down upon those before him. Dead they were the moment they were struck. Like a reaper he wielded his mace against the wheat of the Alliance, and many died as he struck them down.

"You shall not stand alone!" Gil-galad returned, wielding Aiglos, as he stood at Elendil's side. He then leveled his spear at the One Enemy. "This day your evil ends for all time!"

The Dark Lord strode forward, striking down all who stood before him. He stood first before Gil-galad, holding him long in his gaze. The hammer came down and Gil-galad was swatted away as if he were a fly.

"_**My lord!**_" without orders, Elrond broke ranks and ran to the side of his fallen lord.

The Dark Lord turned now to Elendil, all alone against the Dark Lord, his mortal enemy.

"Behold," he said. "Your Elven allies are not there to hold your hand anymore!"

"Dunedain defeated you once," Elendil said, pointing Narsil in Sauron's direction. "By the grace of the Valar, we shall do it again!"

He charged head-long into the battle, Narsil burning like the Sun come down again. It outshone the evil fire of the one Eye the Dark Lord had in the middle of its helmet. Into the darkness Elendil charged, a cry of victory on his lips. Down the hammer came, but Narsil held off the blow. It rose up and came down again, but the Sword, forged by Dwarves and blessed by the Valar, could not be extinguished. Ever the darkness gathered about Elendil and Sauron, trying to outdo the Dunadan-King. But the Flame of the West dispelled the shadow, and hope was risen as never before. Here, for all the world of Men, Elves, Dwarves and orcs to see, was a king who came out to fight for his people.

Parry after parry, blow after blow was turned aside by Narsil. It seemed as though Elendil might actually be a challenge enough for the Dark Lord. Boldly he fought, and in the hearts of all who looked on, they thought that their alliance might actually be able to win.

Elendil parried a blow from the great mace, holding its head down in the ashy ground, keeping Sauron from swinging it again. But the Dark Lord still had a free hand. With that hand he seized Elendil by the neck. The smell of burning flesh stung the nostrils of all who stood about, witnessing this sight. The clatter of a sword falling to the ground was heard, as Elendil's strength gave way and Narsil fell down.

The Dark Lord threw Elendil to the ground on top of his sword. To the horror of the Alliance, there was a sharp snap and suddenly the flame was extinguished. All hope had failed them at last.

"**_Father!_**" Isildur shouted out.

"No, my lord!" Ohtar held him back. "You saw what that thing can do! You don't stand a chance!"

"I must avenge my father and brother!" Isildur shouted. "Let go of me!"

"My lord, I beg you!" But Isildur was the stronger, and pushed Ohtar aside. "Isildur!"

* * *

><p>Few marked what happened next, and Ohtar was one of those few. Isildur ran to the fallen body of his father, cradling him in his arms. For a brief moment, Ohtar saw that the neck of the King was blackened and burned. What fell creature could burn like fire with the mere touch of its hand?<p>

The Dark Lord laughed. "So falls the last _true_ King of Men!"

Ohtar knew what this meant. The Dark Lord knew that Isildur's heart burned with love for his brother, for his father, and so mocked the one who had not died honorably in battle. Isildur drew his sword, but the Dark Lord gripped it in his hand and it melted like ice. With its foot, Sauron kicked Isildur to the ground. He was now groveling like a beggar upon the ashen floor of Gorgoroth. His hand reached out for something, for some faint, frail half-hope that might serve him in his hour of need.

All there was left was a broken sword-hilt.

His hand tightening around the hilt, Isildur looked up at the Dark Lord, its black hand now reaching down to seize him about the throat and burn the life out of him, as he had done to his father.

"**ANARION!**" Isildur shouted out. With one quick thrust, he pushed the still-sharp shattered blade-hilt of Narsil, the weapon that had been their hope, upward into the hand that rose against him.

* * *

><p>All was darkness.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: I really did not like how, in Peter Jackson's movie, all Isildur does in the prologue is shout a lot. So I gave him that battle-cry so that his last wholly good act is one done in the memory of his brother.)<strong>

**(What happens next? The new chapter shall tell all, just you wait!)**


	14. A Ring of Power

**(AN: Here we get to see what happened! Also, no date. That won't appear until the next chapter.)**

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><p><strong>A Ring of Power<strong>

Ohtar at last awoke, once more upon the plains of Gorgoroth, beneath the Mountain of Doom. Rising up, he saw that the rest of the Alliance armies were rising to their feet as well. The last thing he remembered...Isildur had driven the shattered sword up like a spike, then a great shadow of blackness erupted and he knew no more.

He crawled over to Isildur's side, for he could see him. He was lying upon the ground, his father some ways aside. Ohtar did not stand up, for he knew not what became of the orcs. He was now close enough to see that his lord was still breathing. He himself breathed a sigh of relief.

As he looked on, he saw that Isildur cradled something in his gloved hand.

"My lord!" Ohtar whispered. "What is it?"

Isildur said nothing at first, looking the thing over before saying anything.

"It's a ring," he said at last. "The Dark Lord dropped it when..." He looked down at his other hand, which held all that was left of Narsil.

Ohtar laughed. "A ring? But it's-it's nothing, nothing compared to the King's..."

"The King is dead," Isildur said, rising to his feet. All the Dunedain and the Elves also rose, some with their weapons raised in token of honor.

"Long live the King!" they cried out with one voice.

* * *

><p>They returned to the courtyard of Barad-dur, their camps. What remained of the Tower had at last fallen into the lake of fire: the foundations, however, were not so harmed. Ohtar followed Isildur back to his tent, with something in tow.<p>

"My lord," Ohtar began.

"Ohtar, can you answer me something?"

"Of course, my lord!" he returned.

"Look at this," he held up in his hand the ring he had taken from the Dark Lord. It was gold, plain and unadorned save for a line of fire that ran along the middle, burning strange words upon the band.

"It's..." Ohtar sighed. "It's lovely."

"Isn't it?" Isildur asked. "It doesn't make sense, how something so fair come into the possession of the Evil One."

"Well, I wouldn't call it that fair," Ohtar returned. Isildur looked back, an angry look in his eyes. "Well, I meant, in comparison to this." He held up another ring in his hand. Not as Beren had found it, stuck upon a dead hand, but removed and clean, yet still the same ornate design of the serpents of silver and the green gem.

"The Ring of Barahir," Isildur recognized.

"It is an heirloom of the Kings of Numenor, given to Silmarien by her father and passed down to my lord's father Elendil, it is now yours."

"An heirloom of the House of Men," Isildur said. "Well, now this shall be one as well." He held up the golden ring. "It shall be a sign of the Faithful's victory over the Dark Lord of Mordor."

Just then, one came up from the rear.

"There you are!" Nenwe greeted, speaking to Ohtar. "I was wondering where you'd run off to..." She halted. Ohtar looked at her, and saw something that he had never seen in her eyes before: fear. She seemed to be shaking violently, and her knees buckled as if she would collapse. Ohtar seized her by the shoulders and kept her from falling. He led her outside the tent, then turned back to Isildur.

"What happened?" Isildur laughed.

"She was looking at you when she fainted," Ohtar said. "She was looking at that ring."

Isildur held it up, looking at the fine lines of red fire.

"The letters are beautiful," he said. "Elvish, I think. Noldor, perhaps..." He looked at them, scrutinizing when and where he saw letters that looked like this. "Eregion, maybe. The Tengwar script."

"What does it say?"

Isildur looked at it oddly. "It's all gibberish to me. Look, the first phrase is '_ash_', but the Elvish word for ash is '_lithui_'. And what is '_nazg_'? Sounds like the name of those Ringwraiths we faced." Silence as he looked at the rest of the device.

"'_Durbatuluk_,'" he sighed. "That is no language I've ever heard. Even the Dwarves' secret tongue is prettier than these words. Unless..."

"Unless what?" Ohtar asked, as Isildur began to think.

"Unless it isn't a language we know," he concluded. "Because it is a language of the Black Land."

Just then, Elrond and Cirdan appeared. The one was still covered in soot and blood from the battle, while the other, for the most part, looked rather together. But his collected demeanor changed the moment he saw the golden band in Isildur's hand.

"What is that?" he asked.

"A ring I took from the Enemy," Isildur said.

At this, there was a tense silence throughout the tent. Ohtar, who stood forgotten to one side, could sense a presence in the tent, as if there was a fifth person with them in this tent. Not exactly a person, but a presence: an Eye that could see everything and know everything. His gaze, currently, was not on him, but he could feel, for some reason, that it was looking at the two new-comers.

"Nenwe told us that some great evil was here," Elrond said at last, breaking the silence. "Now I see that it is so."

"Great evil?" Isildur laughed. "What evil in something so small, so pretty?" He touched it with his other hand, ungloved, and instantly he hissed as if his skin had been burned. The ring fell out of his hands and onto the floor of the tent. Isildur suddenly jumped for the ring, taking it up in his hands though it was still hot, and cradling it, with suspicious eyes directed at the two Elf-lords.

"What?" he bit back.

Silence once again, but if Ohtar surmised that the tension was gone, he was gravely mistaken. So great it was that he wished to shout out just to break the silence and end the terror that lurked just beneath the surface.

"We have not been completely honest with you," Cirdan said at last. "It was not permitted to speak of such before, and it has not been spoken in almost two thousand years. But we are so close to victory that I feel compelled to speak."

"Speak what?" Isildur queried.

"The reason for the coming of the Shadow to Eregion," Elrond said. Isildur motioned for them to sit down, which they did not.

"Long ago, ere the Shadow fell on Numenor," Cirdan began. "The Kingdom of Eregion was home to the greatest smithies of the Elves. Celebrimbor was their leader, and he had it in him to create Rings of Power that would allow their user to heal the world: for the hurts of Morgoth were still great about this world. Three of these rings were given to the lords of the Elves." At this he held up his hand, showing the red flame that sat thereon. "I have one, and Gil-galad had the other. It is now passed to Elrond."

"It was at this time," Elrond said. "That Sauron came among us, in a guise, under the name of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. He learned much of Ring-lore from Celebrimbor, but at last, he was betrayed and the lords of the Elves hid their rings and did not use them or speak of them openly."

"Why?" Isildur asked.

"Because we realized," Cirdan said. "What Sauron had done. He learned as much of Ring-lore as he needed to create other rings. Seven for the Dwarf-fathers and nine for all Men, whether of Darkness or the Dunedain. Yet he made one ring for his own, not to heal the hurts of the world, but to control all the other rings thereby, and through them, all the peoples of Middle-earth." He pointed at Isildur. "The Ring that is in your hand."

Isildur held it up. It seemed smaller, somehow, than it had been before. No longer a band, but a ring big enough to fit around Isildur's finger.

"Surely you have noticed it," Elrond said. "Even we, who are not using our rings, can see him through it. The Ring is a thing of great evil. I feel that, to exert his will of dominion over all things more effectively, Sauron imparted to this ring something of his own power and will."

"My lord," Cirdan said. "While that Ring lives, Sauron's power is not wholly destroyed."

"Destroy it?" Isildur laughed. "That bastard killed my father and brother! If this thing is so precious to him, then I'll keep it just the same: as bloody money."

"It is the reason the foundations of Barad-dur cannot be destroyed!" Cirdan insisted. "They were created by the power of the Ring."

"And what if I were inclined to destroy it?" Isildur asked.

"Nigh at hand is the Orodruin," Elrond said. "There is a path that leads up the side of the mountain. It is the reason there are many lakes of fire around the Dark Tower: Sauron used the heat of the mountain as a forge. In its fires was that Ring forged: I feel that, were it returned there, it could also be destroyed."

"You've heard my answer," Isildur said. "It will be kept as a heirloom and weregild."

"But, my lord..."

"Who's hand struck down the Dark Lord?" Isildur returned. "My hand! The Ring came to me, and it's mine, I tell you! My own!"

Cirdan and Elrond simply bowed and departed. Ohtar looked after them, then turned back to his lord. Symbolism meant something to Isildur - which was why he risked his life to save the White Tree from wrath of the King's Men in Numenor and again in Minas Ithil - but this seemed a little too far-fetched.

"And you?" Isildur asked. "Where do your loyalties lie, Ohtar?"

"With you, my lord!" he returned, as if there was no question in the issue.

"They'll be coming after me through you next," Isildur said. "But you cannot...you _will_ not submit to them. You are my servant, you hear? Your loyalties are with _me_!"

"Of course, my lord!"

Isildur turned around, looking at the ring in his hands. Ohtar had never seen such a fire burn in Isildur's eyes as just now he had seen.

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><p><strong>(AN: It's the Precious!)<br>**

**(I think this is better than that whole, cheesy corny Elrond leading Isildur into Sammath Naur [and Hugo Weaving with his horrible attempts at sounding epic] from the movie. It's quiet, but you can sense the power of the Ring at play, and we see Isildur suddenly start to change. We never see that in the movies, we _start_ with him being evil. Here we get to see how Isildur changes, and I like that, because it shows the power of the Ring.)**


	15. Back in Gondor

**(AN: A bit short, but I think I've still got two more chapters left [deja vu! lol])**

* * *

><p><strong>Back in Gondor<strong>

_1 T.A._

_The journal of Isildur, High King of Arnor and Gondor, and account of the aftermath of the War of the Last Alliance against Sauron of Mordor, written by the hand of Ohtar, his servant. The first year of the Third Age of this World._

_This will be the final entry in this journal, for the War has ended. The Easterlings and orcs fled into the darkness of the East when their Master was overthrown. Isildur has come to Gondor by the way of Minas Ithil. It is now in the hands of the Kingdom of Gondor once more. The orcs and foul creatures have been driven away and the banner of the Tree and Stars now flies proudly from the Tower of the Moon once more. Furthermore, craftsmen have been sent throughout the regions of the Black Land to build fortresses and watch-towers against an uprising of the Moredain - for many of them still hold sway in Umbar to the far south. The mouth and the exit of the valley of Udun have two great gates, that shall keep the foul folk of Mordor ever in their wicked land._

_The question is now of succession. Both Elendil and Anarion are dead. There will be no going back to Minas Ithil to rule as a captain of Gondor for the lord Isildur. As a son of Elendil, he has a claim over both realms and may rule both of them if he so chooses._

Ohtar sat at a seat somewhat below that of King Isildur, which was on a pedestal in the citadel of Osgiliath. With him were his sons - Elendur, Aratan and Ciryon - and his nephew Meneldil, who had been ruling in Osgiliath since Anarion went away to war. At Elendur's side stood Estelmo: seven years in the darkness of Mordor had changed the fifteen-year-old lad into a young man.

"My sons," Isildur began. "And my dear nephew, I cannot stay in Osgiliath for long, for Arnor shall not be deprived of its king." He nodded. "Yes, I shall not take up the throne of Gondor."

"But you are the eldest, uncle!" Meneldil said. "Please, stay a while here and instruct me in the ways of ruling."

Isildur smiled fondly at his nephew. "You are a good man, Meneldil. You are a tribute to your father." He turned to Ohtar and waved his hand. Ohtar nodded, then got up off his seat and presented his lord with a wooden box. This he opened and brought out its content and held it before Meneldil: it was the helm of Anarion, now fashioned as a crown.

"The crown has always been yours," Isildur said. "Long may you rule Gondor in this time of peace."

Meneldil bowed, but did not take the crown. Isildur placed it back into the box and Ohtar closed the lid.

"You, my sons," Isildur said, stepping down from the throne and embracing them one by one. "Thank the Valar you have survived this bloody war! You shall come with me to Arnor: the kingship shall pass down to you, and you shall tell your brother in Imladris great tales of valor and honor, eh?"

They nodded, smiling.

"Good, good," he said. "All is as it should be. I shall ride forth from the city on New Year's day, and take the scepter of Arnor on the second year of this new age." At this, he dismissed his family, then left the throne room for his chambers, Ohtar following after.

* * *

><p>In his chambers, Isildur walked to his desk and began writing. As usual, his prize sat before him, just within hand's reach.<p>

"Do you have the sword?" Isildur asked at last.

"Which sword?"

"Narsil!"

"Here," Ohtar held up the sheathed sword. He dared not take it out of its scabbard, for it seemed like sacrilege. "But it..." He remembered the aftermath of the battle on the slopes of Orodruin. "...it is extinguished. Should it not lie on the lap of the lord Elendil?"

"No," Isildur shook his head, not even taking his eyes off what he was writing. "It won the war, it cut the Ring from the hand of the Dark Lord. It will serve as a constant reminder of that victory...and of that loss."

Silence.

"And this, also," Isildur pointed to the parchment on which was written. "Narsil will go to Arnor with me, but I've kept your notes from the journal, along with this, so it's memory will be kept in Gondor as well, should the memory of such events fade."

Daringly, Ohtar took a step forward and glanced upon what Isildur was writing. In his right hand was the quill upon which he scrawled the text, and in his left hand was the Ring.

"Something's different about it, my lord." Ohtar said.

"I know," Isildur breathed. "It's grown smaller, but it's still as beautiful as ever. And the writing...the writing is nearly vanished."

"Why, do you suppose, my lord?" Ohtar asked.

"That Elf-maid," Isildur said. "The healer, General Celeborn's daughter, told me that the lord Gil-galad was burned when the Dark Lord touched him, and the same with...with my father. The hand of the Dark Lord was a black flame against which few could withstand."

Thinking of Celebrian brought back many memories in Ohtar's mind. He had bidden farewell to the Elves, including Nenwe, after the war had ended. Already the world seemed a little less fair than it had been before.

"Well, how could we call the writing back?" Ohtar asked. "Maybe if it was heated..."

"No, never!" Isildur roared, turning about to face his servant. Once again, Ohtar saw the unnatural fire in his eyes as before. Then, as suddenly and swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone and there was his lord again.

"I wouldn't suffer any hurt to come upon the Ring," he said again, looking back to the parchment and continuing his writing. "Besides, I've copied it down here on this scroll." He gave Ohtar the finished work, which he unwrapped and saw, once again, in plain black ink, the words that had made Nenwe shiver and lose heart. But at the bottom of the page, above the Tengwar Ring-script, was another word that set Ohtar ill at ease. Ever Isildur favored signs and symbols as means to lift the hearts of Men, but this...this was too much, more like an unnatural affection towards something not human...

_It is precious to me, though I buy it with a great pain._

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><p><strong>(AN: Gonna have to make the next chapter a little longer, but it will do, don't worry.)<strong>


	16. Disaster

**(AN: About this time, I don't think the wild men of Rhudaur or Carn Dum could be called such, since those realms were not established until the Witch-King of Angmar appeared [which may also be featured]. Therefore I refer to them simply as 'wild men', and they are not to be confused with Dunlendings.)**

**(Also, I think the films glossed over the whole 'High Men', 'Middle Men' and 'Men of Darkness' thing that Tolkien had in his books. As you know, the Dunedain [High Men] live about two hundred or more years, and they have all of these special gifts and such. The Middle Men [like the 'Eotheod', the ancestors of the Rohirrim] are worthy in that they are not enemies of the High Men, but they are not as good as the Dunedain and they don't live as long. The 'Men of Darkness' [Easterlings, Haradrim, Dunlendings, Men of Carn Dum, Waw, and other such places] are pretty much the bad guys: they worship Sauron, they burn their dead, they live short life-spans [average of 70 like we do]. I don't know if that has anything to do with eugenics, because I don't know if Tolkien held with that nonsense. I don't, but obviously, in his world, the Dunedain lost their virtue by mixing with the lesser men. Don't think I'm supporting eugenics or selective breeding - it's totally against what I believe.)**

**(-sigh- Also, if Elrond knew about certain events that happen in this chapter, he would have had to learn them from someone, since he was not there when those events happened.)**

* * *

><p><strong>Disaster<strong>

_2 T.A._

When at last everything had been set in order, Isildur readied his horse and took two dozen of his best men, along with his three eldest sons and their servants. Ohtar went with him as well.

Another went with them as well, but against his will: after all, the dead have no will. Elendil was to be taken to a hill named Eilenaer, in the middle of a forest that stood in equal distance between the River Angren and Minas Anor. Here the High King of Arnor would be laid to rest in honor.

The journey north into Eilenaer in Calenardhon would last two days. On the second they would reach the forest, then march north, back to Arnor. It was, yet, the night of the first day of travel, and all were setting camp. Isildur had dismissed Ohtar and retired to his tent. At the camp-fire, as servant to the High King, Ohtar held the seat of honor, doubly so being a veteran of the War of the Alliance.

But Ohtar did not want glory and honor, he just wished to serve his master to the best of his skill.

He sat next to young Estelmo, and they traded stories about their adventures in the Dark Land and what was happening in the world. It seemed that this new age, the age of peace after the destruction of Sauron's realm - what Cirdan heralded as the 'Third Age of this World' - would seem very boring and dull.

"What will become of our kingdoms?" Estelmo asked Ohtar.

"I know not," he shook his head. "The blood of the Dunedain is strong in our veins, and the memory of the great deeds done in this war will last forever." He looked over to the tent next to Isildur's: no less honor it held, and even a guard was posted around it at all times. Here, in a wooden case, lay the body of Elendil.

"But what?" the young man asked.

"We've lost too many good men," Ohtar mused. "Men cannot father sons if they are dead, and without sons, the line of Numenor will soon fade."

"Why does it have to fade?" Estelmo asked. "There are other options."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's no secret that we're not the only race of Men living in Middle-earth," Estelmo began. "You know, while we were at Amon Sul, I spent a lot of time in the hills to the east of us. There are natives there, and their women..."

Ohtar struck him. "You speak of the wild folk of the Ettenmoors. They herald from the barbaric, child-sacrificing people of the far north."

"I thought the Lossoth were at peace with Arnor."

"Not the Lossoth, young Estel, the wicked men who live between Forochel and Arnor, in the regions around the Ettenmoors and Mount Gundabad."

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're barbarians, Estel." Ohtar reminded him. "They sacrifice their children to nameless gods, who might just be incarnations of the Dark Lord. They live short, brutal lives that end with an ax at their throats. Battle is all that they know. Do you really want to marry one of them?"

"Their women can't be all that bad." Estelmo reasoned.

"Listen to yourself!" Ohtar insisted. "Have some pride in the dignity of your Dunedain heritage. We were blessed by the Valar with long life, longer than the span of years of other races of Men, and eternal vigor and youth lasting well into the hundreds. And when you are not even one hundred, your pretty young lass will be an old matron and soon perish, leaving you with loneliness and children who won't live to see two hundred."

"But how can we call them barbaric," Estelmo queried. "If we treat them as if they were animals?"

"Not all of the other Men we treat as such! The Eotheod, though short-lived, are worthy companions. And there are others in Rhovanion, wild men, keepers of bees and changers of form, against whom we have no quarrel. But we do not unite with them in matrimony, or else the virtue given to us by the Valar will be wasted."

"Even so," Estelmo returned. "I don't see how it's any wrong thing, going after someone I prefer, whether she's Dunedain or wild. What about the Elves? There were no quarrels about Beren and Luthien, or Tuor and Idril, and the Elves live long enough to make us seem like wild men!"

Ohtar's attention was drawn instead to the tent of his lord, where nothing had appeared since he had departed therein. It was illuminated with a soft gold, from the light of the candle that Isildur had placed inside. The silloheuttes of his stool and some other devices sitting in the tent could be clearly seen, but nothing else.

"What troubles you, old man?" Estelmo asked.

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing."

"It's the King, isn't it?"

Ohtar shushed his young friend. "You know that it's treason to imagine harm come upon the King!"

"I don't wish harm to come to him, I'm concerned as much as you are."

"Well, it is not His Majesty's well-being that concerns me, though they are fast becoming one and the same."

"What are?"

"His well-being..." He looked over at the tent, where the sillohuette of the King appeared suddenly, out of thin air. Not as though he had stepped out and come back in, for nothing had entered or left the tent, but as if he had been there one moment, then was not there, then was back again.

"And?" Estelmo asked with curiosity.

"And the Ring."

* * *

><p><em>Back in Mordor, shortly after Isildur had told Ohtar not to give into the persuasions of the Elf-lords. He was off-duty and going to find some food. It had been a long day and he was weary and hungry. As he went, he saw the Dwarves preparing themselves for the long trip back to Hadhodrond - Khazad-dum in their language. He almost ran into Nenwe, they both apologized.<em>

_"Wait, milady, I have something to ask you!" he insisted._

_"What is it?" she returned._

_"Just a few minutes ago," he began. "At the door of Isildur's tent, when you came to speak with me."_

_"I wanted to say farewell," she replied. "I will be going to Imladris with Lord Elrond."_

_"So he is King, then?"_

_Nenwe sighed, sadness in her voice. "There will be no High King of the Noldor, for we are diminished on the face of this earth. Even if there were, Elrond is only _peredhil_, only Half-Elf. He only maintains Imladris for those of my people who are making their long voyage to Valinor."_

_Sadness. He had almost forgotten that the Elves were leaving Middle-earth._

_"But I have something else to ask you."_

_"What is it? Come on, out with it!"_

_"At my lord's tent," Ohtar said. "You saw something, and you almost fainted. I had to carry you out. What happened?"_

_"I cannot speak of it." Nenwe suddenly became grave in countenance and walked away. "I'm sorry, Dunadan."_

_"Wait, what was it? Why can't you speak of it?"_

_"She cannot," a third voice said. Turning around, there stood Elrond Peredhil, herald and commander of the Noldor hosts, now simply Lord of Imladris. "But I can."_

_"Then tell me," Ohtar insisted._

_"Nenwe saw the inscription upon the Ring," Elrond began. "But we cannot speak of such things openly." He led Ohtar aside, to his tent, and bade him sat down._

_"Not until you tell me about the Ring," Ohtar returned._

_"You were there in your master's tent," Elrond continued. "You heard all that went on."_

_"There's a lot that evades my memory, I'm only a Man, after all."_

_"Then I shall educate you," Elrond replied. "The writing on the Ring is an incantation, one that Sauron crafted upon it when he made the Ring. It commands great evil when spoken in the Black Tongue, in which it is written, but in Westron, it says this much:_

"'One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them. One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.'"

_Even as Elrond spoke these simple words, Ohtar noticed his hand go over the ring on his own hand, as if trying to hide it from some Eye that was constantly probing the darkness, seeking to find the lost three._

_"In this incantation," Elrond said. "The purpose and power of the One Ring is made plain: it's purpose is to rule all the Rings of Power and thereby all of Middle-earth. It's power is to enslave us all under it's power. It cannot be held by anyone, for it will turn his will towards dominion and destructive ends. It must be destroyed."_

_"You do it," Ohtar shook his head. "I cannot betray my lord."  
><em>

_"I am not asking you to betray your master," Elrond continued. "I am only pleading with you, as one who has some influence on the council of the King, to use that influence to persuade him to see reason. The Ring only corrupts, for by its power nine Kings of Men were corrupted and turned into the Ringwraiths. Or have you not heard of the songs?"_

_"What songs?" Ohtar asked._

_Elrond began in a low chant; not exactly a song, but more of a recitation of a verse whose origins were in the ancient days of the previous age of this world._

Three Rings for the Elven-Kings under the Sky  
>Seven for the Dwarf-Lords in their halls of stone<br>Nine for mortal Men, doomed to die  
>One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne<br>In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie

_"The writing upon the Ring is then spoken, to show what purpose the Ring has, but you need not for me to repeat that. You know by now what must be done."_

_"I'm just a servant," repeated Ohtar. "I know nothing of rings or kings or such high matters. You do it. You convince my Lord to destroy, or better yet, you also destroy it!"_

_"Do not tempt me!" Elrond rose up, anger in his eyes. "You know not the full extent of the power of the Ring if you suggest such. The Ring has a measure of Sauron's power, and therefore will exert its will over all the races it was made to dominate: Elves, Men and Dwarves. I fear to take the Ring, even to destroy it: I _will_ not take the Ring to wield it." He sat back down._

_"This is why I need you," he said. "A lord of great power is just what the Ring wants, for in it, it sees a potential to make another Dark Lord and so continue the work of Morgoth."_

_At this, Ohtar shivered. He heard the rumors of Morgoth, the Dark Valar, whose endless reign of terror had broken Middle-earth. Demons he commanded, the Shadow of Flame creatures of legend known as the Balrog - bless the Valar none were seen in Middle-earth since Morgoth's fall. Beside him, Sauron was but a herald and ambassador of evil._

_Ohtar returned to his lord's tent, eager to do as he had been instructed. It would not be treachery, he reasoned. He would not seek to kill Isildur or take the Ring from him by force. He would try to convince him to do away with it himself._

_He peered into the tent, but saw not his lord. Perhaps he had left. Ohtar took a step out of the tent, and suddenly found himself thrown back to the ground. He looked up, but no one else was around._

_"Get in here!" a voice angrily replied._

_Ohtar rose to his feet, and sheepishly walked into the tent. He was pushed down upon the floor, and before he could even breathe, Isildur had appeared, a sword in his hand. The blade point was aimed at Ohtar._

_"I ask you to be loyal, and _this_ is what you do?" he hissed. Ohtar noticed that wicked fire in his eyes._

_"No, my lord!" he shook his head quickly. "I mean you no harm. I only did it in the interest of serving you, of protecting you! I would give my life for you at a moment's notice, at your command!"_

_For a moment, the eyes glared with their evil fire, but soon it died down. Isildur tossed aside the sword and then helped Ohtar to his feet._

_"Because of your long-standing service towards me," he returned. "I will spare your life. But no more shall you fraternize with those Elves. They are jealous that this victory was because of me, not them! In the War of Wrath, the Elves did all the fighting and got all the glory, and what did Men get? Mortality. Well, _this_ victory, this victory against Sauron, belongs to the Dunedain!"_

_Ohtar nodded, then saw Isildur place something around a chain on his neck._

_"What?" he asked. "Oh, this?" He held up the Ring, now nothing more than a simple, plain gold band. "It's amazing, I can pass unseen when I wear the Ring."_

_Ohtar smiled, but it felt so fake. Disappearing may be a rare, useful gift in dire straits, but it smacked of cowardice. A warrior fought openly on the field of battle, as they had done at the Dagorlad. A coward sought to use a veil of disguise to pass unseen and gain an unfair advantage over his enemy. That was no way for a warrior to live: a warrior must face his enemy full-on, that he may know that he gained the victory through his might. Using a magic trinket was no test of strength or might, simply a reliance on some other power - cowardice._

_But Isildur was no coward!_

* * *

><p>The ceremony was held on the morning of the second day. A tall structure had been built in the middle of the forest, and into it the body of Elendil was interred. Upon his stone sarcophagus was placed a likeness of the King. As Ohtar looked on, he saw that the grave-image captured some of the splendor of the Kings of Numenor. It's glory, he knew, would go on undimmed, even unto the breaking of the world.<p>

Before Elendil was at last laid to rest, Isildur removed the silver circlet from off his father's head and held it up before all to see.

"This circlet of _mithril_ and silver," he said. "was the Star of Silmarien. Now it shall be known as the Star of Elendil, for upon my father's brow, it shone the way into the darkness of Mordor, and by his sword was the Dark Lord defeated."

Having said thus, he placed it upon his own head, and the burial ceremony was allowed to continue.

* * *

><p>The journey from Eilenaer to the north pressed on, with Isildur marching directly north rather than north-west. The latter would have been the quickest route, especially since it would take them through friendly territory - namely Angrenost, the Isengard. Afterwards, it was a straight march to the north-lands.<p>

Three days after the burial of Elendil, Isildur and Ohtar sat upon their horses, looking at the cliffs that marked the end of the realm of Gondor.

"This canyon is too empty," Isildur said. "When I return to my own, I shall have commissioned two great statues to guard this pass of the River, that all may know for certain that they enter the Realm of Gondor."

"Who's likeness shall they bear?" Ohtar asked.

"That of my father," Isildur began. "And that of my brother Anarion. I shall have to write up the decree and send it to Osgiliath once we reach Imladris."

"Why are we stopping at Imladris, my lord?" Ohtar asked.

"I have a wife and a young son to meet first," Isildur said proudly. "There my youngest shall hear tales of his grandsire, Elendil the Tall, who led the Dunedain into the Shadow of Mordor and triumphed over the Dark Lord."

"Would not the west road have been easier, though longer?"

"Ease be damned!" Isildur replied proudly. "Let all the lands of the East know who it was that overthrew their Dark Master." Isildur raised his fist across the River, in the direction of the Brown Lands, tree-less barrens that had once been the southern arm of Calentaur the Great.

"**_I am the bane of the Dark_ _Lord!_**" Isildur proudly proclaimed.

* * *

><p>They marched on for many more days, coming at last to the eaves of the Golden Wood. They had not passed through that land on their march to the south, nor would they on their march to the north. Amroth, son of Amdir, forbade Isildur and his army entrance into Lothlorien.<p>

"So much for their allegiance," Isildur sneered as they passed by the wood of Caras Galadhon, never to see the beauties within.

Onward they went, for they must reach the High Pass, the easiest and safest pass over the Hithaeglir. It curved around to the north of Imladris, and so came to that valley from the north. When first they marched, their path led them to the south and east, so they marched over the Pass of Caradhras. Now they would go back the way they came by way of the High Pass. Durin himself had given a map, drawn by Forin, that showed them the way through the perilous heights of the High Pass.

In order to reach the entrance to the High Pass, Isildur's company marched northward from the eaves of Lothlorien. Here they came to a land known in the Elf-tongue as Loeg Ningloron. Northward, at the heart of the River Anduin, the currents were very powerful, and so they were southward towards Lothlorien and Calentaur. But here the currents died down and the land was thick with marshes.

These were the fields of the Gladden.

"My lord," Elendur said to his father. "It's getting late. We should set camp here."

Isildur nodded, but said nothing.

"Is everything alright, father?" he asked. "You haven't spoken to any of us in a while."

"Why should anything be wrong?" Isildur asked, not even turning to face his son. "Sauron is defeated, the end of his realm has come."

"Is that why you've stopped posting guards around our camp-site?"

"What other foes are there to fear?" Isildur asked.

A roar was heard, and arrows struck in the ground around them.

"Ambush!" Elendur shouted. Shields went up and the arrows bounced harmlessly off them. A sortie of armed orcs appeared, attacking the company. Men on horses were beat down and eaten alive by the savage orcs. Some arrows found chinks in the defense of the shields and struck man and beast.

Ohtar held his shield up as he walked to the side of his lord. Estelmo joined the side of his lord, his shield raised as well.

"They caught us by surprise, my lord!" Ohtar said. In his mind, he was imagining Thranduil of Greenwood upbraiding him for speaking the obvious.

"We can still break through to the High Pass," Isildur said.

"You go, father!" Elendur insisted. "We'll hold them off."

"My lord is right, Your Majesty!" Ohtar added. "The Kingdom needs its king!"

A group of orcs attacked the four of them. Isildur and Elendur took out their swords and hacked down whatever fiends got close to them. One with a spiked club charged at them, howling and screaming in its foul orc-language. Ohtar bashed the creature with his shield, throwing it to the ground.

To his shock and horror, he saw Estelmo, lying on the ground, his head bleeding from where the orc's foul weapon had struck his helmet.

"Was he your lovely?" the orc sneered.

A fey rage fell upon the spirit of Ohtar, and he struck down the orc with all of his strength. His sword cut and hacked at the beast's face until it was totally unrecognizable and his own was covered in black blood.

But more orcs kept coming.

"My lord!" Elendur shouted, turning to Isildur. "You must escape this fight! You must..."

An orc scimitar tore through his back and popped out of his chest, the blade gleaming with red blood. With a cry of fury, Aratan joined the fray in a vain effort to save his brother. But an arrow shot him in the back, then again in the back of his knee, and he fell to the ground. Isildur was now crying out in fury, rage and sadness, seeing his children cut down before his eyes. Three of the foul ones mobbed Ciryon and dragged him away, beating him with their spiked clubs and stabbing him with their swords.

"Ohtar!" Isildur ran to his servant's side. The servant, faithful to the last, held his shield up and his blackened sword in hand, ready to give his life for his lord.

"Here, my lord!" Ohtar cried. Though whether it was tears or black blood upon his face, he knew not and cared not. Battle was not the time for such niceties.

"Take this," Isildur thrust out the map of Durin, which Ohtar let go of his shield in order to take. "And this..." He unbuckled from his belt a long sheath, in which was held a sword that would not rest on the breast of its last wielder.

"No," Ohtar shook his head.

"Do as I say," Isildur insisted. "Take the sword to Imladris. Save it from capture by all means that you can find, and at all costs; even at the cost of being held a coward who deserted me."

"My place is at your side!" Ohtar was now weeping, he knew for certain.

"Go!" Isildur returned.

"Let me die at your side, as I have sworn!" Ohtar begged.

"I command you to go!" Ohtar did not leave until Isildur pushed him away from him, a hungry look in his eye.

Never before had Ohtar ran from a fight, especially from the side of his lord when he was in-danger. But now he had a choice. Long ago, he had sworn an oath to Isildur, lord of Minas Ithil, now King of Arnor...

_Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and King of the realm: to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me or the world end. So say I, Ohtar son of Ammar, of Angrenost and Ithilien._

He was not released from the service of his lord. Nay, in fact, his lord had given him one last command. For certainly it would be his last. Yet he was torn between two prerogatives: to obey his oath and his lord's command, and be called a coward, or to die in honor, fighting at the side of his lord and king, with the knowledge that he died at last in disfavor and had broken his oath of honor by betraying his lord.

At last he had decided. _If I were to die here at his side, I would be disobeying his last words. Shall it be said that Ohtar, the servant of the second King of Arnor, who gave invaluable service to his lord while he yet lived, at last disobeyed and betrayed him?_

He now sat in a grove of bushes, sheltered from the sight of the orcs but able to see all that went on. The orcs had over-powered the Dunedain, and all were in a great rout. The last he saw of Isildur was of him standing in the midst of the carnage, a flash of gold, then he disappeared.

Had Isildur, at the very last, turned coward? Did he use the Ring to pass unseen before the eyes of the Enemy, sparing his own life while letting his men die for him? Ohtar wept once again at the thought of what his lord had done.

Suddenly there was some commotion and arrows were being fired into the water of the nearby River. Ohtar averted his eyes, unable to make them see what had now happened. There would be no going back now.

Isildur, son of Elendil, Dunadan of Numenor, was dead.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: Once again, Peter Jackson really makes Isildur seem like an a-hole. Furthermore, I've altered some of the 'official' facts, since someone had to have seen what happened. If Elrond wasn't there, yet knew what happened, how then, unless someone who survived the battle told him? And did he then guess what happened to Isildur? If not, then someone who survived must have witnessed it. That was my reasoning.)<strong>

**(One more chapter to go!)**


	17. The Prophecy

**(AN: You know, in the soundtrack of _Lord of the Rings_, there is a track called "The Prophecy". I have no idea why, since there's not _really_ any prophecy, other than that of Malbeth the Seer, which is not mentioned at all in the films. It has to do with the Return of the King, which will come sooner or later, as you will soon see.)**

**(Other than that, I hope you've enjoyed this story. As you can see, I've got some more planned in the future, so just you wait.)**

* * *

><p><strong>The Prophecy<strong>

_3 T.A._

Ohtar awoke once again. He knew not how long he had been asleep, nor how long he had been traveling. Memories of the ambush at the Gladden Fields came back, and he reached about for his sword. He found himself lying on warm, linen white sheets. He was no longer in the wilds.

He sighed, remembering a time when the Alliance was young and they had spent those three years in Imladris. Wee Valandil had grown up quickly, but he was still at that tender age when children knew very little. When he was just a babe, his father went off to war and never came back, Ohtar knew: just as when his own son was but a babe, the darkness of Torech Ungol had stolen him away from him.

Did he wish to wake, to see that he had dreamed and that nothing of the sort had happened? Perhaps, when he opened his eyes, there would be Isildur, chiding him for being late in rising again. They would be back in Imladris, with the Enemy in the East still to vanquish.

Or maybe it would not be that way? Maybe he would wake and find that all the evil he had experienced had indeed happened? So many lords of the Dunedain and Eldar now lay dead, upon the field of Dagorlad or born out of the Dark Land. Indeed, the world would be a lesser place without them.

But did he wish to sleep? In sleep there was the hope of forgetfulness, and the pain of loss could be diminished and assuaged, if only for a moment. But in sleep there also was the possibility of dreams, and the things of past, present and future sometimes manifest themselves in dreams. Would dreaming be worse or better than wakefulness?

"_Lasto beth nin, Ohtar in Dunedain_." a familiar voice whispered, softer than the dayspring and as lovely as starlight. "_Tolo dan nan galad, mellon nin._"

His eyes slowly opened, and Ohtar saw the last face he had expected to see in this life. He feared she had faded into the far west, beyond the Doom of Man.

"Nenwe!" he sighed.

"You are in Imladris," she smiled. There he saw her for the first time in years. She had not aged at all. Gone was the armor she wore while fighting with the Alliance; she wore again the gown of pale blue that she wore in the days of peace.

"What happened?" he asked. "I-I remember..."

"The others found you," she said.

"Which others?" he asked.

"King Thranduil received news of the ambush at Gladden," Nenwe replied. "He returned with the survivors to Imladris and found you in the mountains."

"Which survivors?"

Just then, Ohtar saw, sitting on a stool nearby, with a heavy bandage about his head, was one he thought was dead. Leaping from his bed, he embraced Estelmo, laughing and crying as he did. Beyond all hope, the young man had survived.

* * *

><p>Nenwe now guided Ohtar to Elrond's study. All of Imladris was beautiful and in life, in stark contrast to the emptiness that Ohtar felt with the loss of his lord.<p>

"My lord has requested your presence," she said.

"Why?" Ohtar asked.

"All will be revealed in time...Ohtar."

He nodded, then looked down, felt about on his waist and on his back, and noticed something dreadful.

"Where is it?" he cried. "Where has it gone?"

"_Fæste, stille nu!_" He felt Nenwe's soft hand upon his shoulder. He noticed that he had never been this close to her before. "All shall be revealed when you speak with Elrond."

They walked on, now up a flight of winding stairs with a window that showed an exquisite view of the valley.

"And who do I have to thank for personally saving me?"

"Me, _mellon nin._"

"I thought you were no healer." he smirked.

"I'm not," she replied, a bit grimly. "But the Lord Elrond has the gift of foresight. He said that it is my duty, ere I sail into the West, to be the protector of the Dunedain."

"In that case," Ohtar smiled. "_Hannon le, Nenwe._"

"_U-moe hannon, mellon nin_."

At last she led him to Elrond's study. Here, more than ever, the wisdom and wealth of Elrond's many years were manifest. No longer was he a simple herald, but a lord of the Eldar, mighty in word and deeds, great in wisdom. He sat at a table, upon which was the sword. With a cry, Ohtar took the sword in its sheath and clutched it to his person.

"The Sword-That-Was-Broken," Elrond began. "Its light shall not shine again." At this, Elrond took hold of the hilt and drew it out. Ohtar saw, to his dismay, that the blade was indeed broken, and no more light shone upon the naked blade. It was now a sword like any other - even _less_ than any other since it was now broken.

"Does my lord's wife know of what happened?" Ohtar asked.

"You have spoken much in your sleep, Dunadan," Elrond said. "Your tale has been divined by your word and that of Thranduil." He placed the sword-hilt back into the sheath, then sat down again, a look of grave concern on his face.

"Alas for Isildur," he said at last. "The Ruling Ring has a power that he did not perceive, and in the end, it betrayed him unto his very death."

"Little good that did it, eh?" Ohtar asked, hoping against hope. "It's fallen into the River, beyond the grasp of the Enemy...whatever's left of them!"

"The tides of the world may change," Elrond continued. "And someday, the One Ring may be found again and Sauron shall return."

"By the grace of the Valar," Ohtar said. "May that day never come."

"'By the grace of the Valar?'" Elrond returned. "Mayhap, yet against that day is also set the time when the Flame of the West shall be rekindled and the Sword of Elendil forged anew."

Ohtar had naught to say against this. He longed to see the Sword forged anew, yet would rather die than see the evil of the Dark Lord of Mordor returned to power and the Ring that destroyed his lord return.

"The sword," Ohtar said at last. "Shall go to Valandil, when he is king."

Elrond nodded. Nothing more need be said. With Nenwe's gentle but firm grip on his shoulders, Ohtar rose up from Elrond's study and returned to the bed. For now, he would return to sleep: earned it he had.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: As you can see, this is not <em>exactly<em> the end. Only Ohtar's part in this tale has come to an end.**** By now, the Last Alliance can be brought to a conclusion.)**

**(So, what do you think? Should I continue? If I will, the next part will be the _War Against Angmar_, _Elrond's Grief_ and 'other such stories'. They will be my interpretations, and many interesting characters shall come and go throughout them. But now, give me your thoughts and feedback...please.)**


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